Standing on their shoulders

It happens in schools sometimes. Decisions get made from high up.

Year 7 White, Year 7 Red, Year 7 Blue, Year 7 Gold and Year 7 Green  were all meant to get their year level camp in 1979, my first year of high school. Someone decided that for that year it wasn’t happening. The camp had happened for as long as people in the school could remember and it was reinstated in 1980. All the way up to my final year of school, there was a Year 7 camp. Just not in our year.  

It has filtered down some 33 years afterwards that my homeroom teacher in that year, Mr. Thompson wasn’t happy about the decision. He didn’t show his disappointment to his students. I’ve worked in schools and can tell you that he was utterly professional about the whole thing.

Mr Charles Thompson (we called him Chuck) was a great teacher. If you are of a certain age, you will understand that he could pass as the twin of Gabe Cotter, the star of the hit 1970’s TV series about a teacher in the Bronx, Welcome Back Cotter. He had the afro’, the flares. He was in his second year out of teachers college. Our classroom door was always the first open. There was Chuck at his desk each morning with his cup of coffee, doing corrections. A group of us would just stand around his desk and talk about nothing in particular. He was great to be around. We could joke with him and when the bell went he would teach using quizzes, stories – Chuck made learning fun.

 A few weeks after the camp had been called off, Chuck spoke to the class and said, “If we are going to do this, it’s all in or it’s not on.” And so student by student, a permission note came from home and the camp was on – just for 7 Green at De La Salle College. We also had to keep it quiet from the other classes. I understand now that Chuck had arranged with the principal, permission to have a weekend camp... not in school time and at no cost to the school. Chuck made it happen on his time. Here we are, your blogger is sitting on the floor there on the left (they forgot to name me and the other fella in the school annual - Blue & Gold).

I remember that camp so clearly, cooking damper in hot coals, walking through the Dandenong ranges and stopping for a swim at the Monbulk pool, sleeping in tents Chuck had got a hold of. As time went on and I became an adult, I appreciated the effort and commitment Chuck had shown to us.

‘Effort and Commitment’ was the theme of a presentation I was asked to give at a school I run the Time & Space programs for – Yea High School. They have a special assembly each semester and award the students who have shown, you guessed it, effort and commitment in some aspect of school life. Pennants are given out to the students in the Yea Shire Hall and their parents and grandparents are invited to the celebration.

I told the gathering about Chuck and was delighted to pass on that in the two years I have been working for Yea High School; it has been evident that there are teachers like Chuck in their staff community.

There’s Phil Wischer, the art teacher. I’ve got to know Phil and on the day of the presentation, he brought in a painting he had done. It is inspired by Wilson’s Promontory – a mountain and seascape. The picture has a rope ladder falling from the sky and in near invisible writing, he has written a verse of Coleridge’s The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. I said to the students – how cool is it that your art teacher is an artist? Phil is coordinating the school musical production as well. I understand his main motivation is that he wants the kids to experience that feeling of being part of something bigger than them – that’s what Phil remembers about the times when he was a student in his school productions.

Then there’s Nicole Gillingham. We run the Time & Space evenings in the building she teaches in at Yea High School. Without fail, every time I go in to set up after school has finished, Nicole is there tutoring a student in maths. One-on-one, carefully explaining the problem and I know as I walk past, that she will explain it again and again, in different ways until the student understands. She is so patient. When I have visited the school during the day, I have seen her at a little makeshift desk outside the staffroom, helping a student during lunchtime.

Sandy Reddan the ‘food-tech’ teacher always arrives before the Time & Space nights with a basket of muffins (always two flavours), scones and jam and Cream and even some Anzac biscuits – all freshly baked. Sandy simply doesn’t have to do this but she does. One morning after I arrived back in Melbourne late the night before from the 90 minute drive from Yea High School, my wife saw a carton of eggs on our kitchen bench.

“Where did you get those”, she asked?

“Oh Sandy told me her chickens were going crazy and she had stacks of eggs left over, so she gave these to me”. We had some for breakfast – those eggs seemed to have so much more flavour than the ones you get from the supermarket.

Yea High School deceptively contains a humble set of buildings. There are champions of ‘effort and commitment’ inside those walls, inspiring the kids.

I asked the students and the mums and dads and grandparents to close their eyes and take thirty seconds to consider the person, the teacher who made a difference in their life.

So here’s an invitation to you to do that now. Look away from this story... close your eyes for 30 seconds and try to picture that teacher whose shoulders you stand on because of their effort and commitment.  

Could you picture them? Great, I’ve got a suggested action for you in just a moment.

With respect to Chuck - I’ve actually written about him before – and when I did, I made the suggestion to reach out to that teacher (if they were still around) and simply say ‘thanks’. I wrote Chuck a letter. As it came to pass, I did a session at my old school for the staff late last year. Chuck was in the audience and I told the story of his effort and commitment for 7 Green in 1979. Chuck was beaming. A colleague of his recently told me he was really chuffed. It took me over 30 years to say thank you.

So you guessed it. If you know your teacher is still around. Drop them a line. You might be the person who makes every ‘effort and commitment’ act your teacher gave, across a career, seem completely worthwhile.

If the teacher is not around anymore, in the next 24 hours – tell someone important to you why your teacher inspired you.

      

Doing one thing well...

... in a world that demands flexibility, lauds the multi-tasker and pronounces that today’s 15-year-old will have about 20 different jobs throughout their career... it isn’t difficult to build the argument against the specialist.

You can see how the person who does one thing well could be dismissed as unsuitably equipped to make their way in life. Where the contemporary phrase ‘keeping your options open’ can be matched with another trendy term, ‘the collective wisdom’, doing one thing well, might be the foolhardy approach.

The caveat though is if that one thing, done well, is something the person loves doing.

Did you ever do one of those career aptitude tests?

A company called Career Wise visited my school in the 1980’s. I was in Year 9. We all sat in the school hall and under exam conditions filled in the multiple, multiple choice circles with grey lead pencil. There was an IQ component as well. The company then collected all the answer cards, took them to their office to feed into a big computer. Computers were big then. 

Some weeks later, we all went back into the hall with our mums and dads and listened to a person from Career Wise explain the science behind the results. We sat down with individual consultants and they presented us with our envelope with the personalised print-out of our strengths and weaknesses.

My test said I should become an accountant. I don’t remember any of the other suggestions but I am certain there was nothing remotely suggesting ‘parent-child program facilitator’. Another strong memory is that at least three of my classmates were somewhat bewildered, asking “Do you know what a Ship’s Purser is?”

There is a glut of international sporting competitions right now. Amongst The World Cup, Le Tour and the Commonwealth Games, The Open Championship – one of the four world majors – was held at The Royal Liverpool Golf Club two weeks ago. Over the last few years, I have started to notice one person particularly in this tournament. I’ve had a quiet chuckle to myself wondering at the career aptitude test that a gentleman named Ivor Robson might have taken when he was 15.

Would Ivor’s test have turned up First Tee Announcer?  Probably not.

Ivor Robson is the man who announces the names of the players hitting off at the first tee. And that is part of his magic. He simply announces the names and the country they come from.No curriculum vitae of the player’s achievements (one exception is that he acknowledges the defending champion). No big build up.

I don’t know the name of any of the guys who announce at the other three majors. Why do I know Ivor’s? Because I started started to notice that each year he was always there. I like his minimalist approach, his mastery of difficult names and the distinctive musicality in his voice. He makes me smile. This simple talent prompted me to find out more. His story is delightfully interesting.

Ivor has been the announcer at The Open for 40 years now. He arrives at the tee 90 minutes before the first group and he never takes a break, a snack or a sip of water. In fact he doesn’t take a toilet break. This would explain his routine of refraining from eating or drinking from 7pm the night before. Until the last group tees off, Ivor remains, standing, at his post. He checks the players have the regulation golf balls, ensures they don’t have more than the maximum 14 clubs allowed in their golf bag and gives them their score cards. Sending 156 players off in the first two days, he will be at his station for upwards of ten hours. Ivor is meticulous about keeping time and there is no fear or favour – if a three time major winner is late, he’s disqualified. Sending 52 groups off in the early rounds, you can understand why, when quizzed about his job, Ivor has offered that he needs to maintain strict concentration.

You can see I’ve become something of an Ivor Robson groupie. I've, err, (pardon the intentional pun) learnt that: he has never answered a question about his exact age; Ivor breaks the difficult-to-pronounce names into manageable phonetic bits and his advice to the aspiring announcer, is to say the name once, and convincingly. It is easy to pick up that Ivor simply loves the game. And he is humble. At last year’s tournament at Muirfield, he was asked about his legacy after he retires (one day).

Ivor remarked “Seven days after I’ve gone, they’ll say ‘who was that grey-haired old man who used to announce the players.'”

This year, Ivor received that classic accolade... what do they say? The greatest form of flattery is imitation. Have a look at this.

Ivor Robson does one thing well.

And here are three others who belong in Ivor’s class.

John Donegan was in my year group at my school. He would have taken that same Career Wise test.

Maybe they got him right. Search John on the web and you'll find that he sold his first photo when he was 14. I remember John, as a student, seemed like he almost had his own set of keys for the Media area. He was always developing his latest set of photos in the dark room. I’ve enjoyed following John on Twitter in recent times. A couple of weeks ago, he travelled around Australia's major cities and captured scenes from his angle of vision. It is great art. He has mashed those city shots with photos taken of the same scenes back in 1914. It is late July as I write this. One hundred years ago, most Australians would have been innocently unaware of how close they were to the beginning of The Great War. Check John's work out here. It is a sublime concept, professionally executed.

Julie-Anne Geddes was my work supervisor in a volunteer year I did in Sydney in 1989. She coordinated  a coffee shop, which was a special work of the local Anglican parishes, for the transsexual prostitutes who worked on William Street down from Kings Cross. Julie oversaw this safe place, called PJ’s, ensuring these ladies could come and take a break from their work and she looked after the eclectic group of volunteers in her charge as well. 

She was always a grounded, kind helper. Now living in Wollongong with her family, Julie is a psychologist with well, that Julie spark. No doubt she would be doing untold good for the folk she supports. I've just ordered her recently released, first book Acts of Love: a thousand ways to sustain love. Can't wait to read it.

And finally, how do you fancy  being lost for 92 minutes within a beautiful story?  Then see Still Life. Eddie Marsan's performance is masterful as he occupies the character of the utterly decent, selfless council worker, John May. What’s the one thing that John May does well? He has worked for 22 years carefully, respectfully trying to find the next of kin of those who died alone in his South London borough.Oh yeah, Joanne Froggatt of Downton Abbey fame puts in a wonderful performance too.

Ivor Robson, John Donegan, Julie-Anne Geddes, John May (and Eddie Marsan) all do one thing well, very well. And in their work, you easily spot the generosity that emanates and delights. They love what they do and they are good at it.

It’s underrated but I reckon it is worth encouraging our kids to explore their hearts to find that one spark that fires them more than any other option.

This story is dedicated to my young bloke Jack who turned 18 earlier this month. Jacko - you could be a philosopher - in fact you are a philosopher. You are a bloody good actor as well. I know I may not put my advice at a premium - you probably get too much of it from your less than perfect old man... all the same... Son - work out what is it is that you truly love doing and then do that one thing well – maybe, against the tide of collective wisdom, for a lifetime.

Gabi - a Mothers Day Champion

It has been a big week for Gabi.

On Tuesday night Gabi was a participant at the Mother and Son session at her son’s school, Saint Ignatius College in Drysdale, a 20 minute drive through Geelong.

Two nights later she fronted up and was a team member at the subsequent Mother and Daughter night. At her Mother-Daughter session in 2012, Gabi had ticked a box on the evaluation form to say she would be interested being a team member at a future event.

Participants can also tick a box to say that they would like to become a member of the Time & Space Community. They receive stories about mums, dads, young people who often are going about, what the subjects consistently consider to be, their ordinary life. And then you and I, encountering their story, might contend that they are quietly being extraordinary. Another way I describe the people of these everyday stories are as ‘champions who have been spotted’. Gabi is one such champion.

If you have been to a Time & Space session you will have seen and heard from that brave group up the front... the people on the community panel. We usually have two parents and two young people sharing their insights about the questions the participants will answer in their small group session that follows. Gabi was a panellist on Thursday night.

In answer to the question... what is a special quality you see in your child? She said this about her daughter...

My daughter’s special quality would without doubt be her inner strength. Her courage and ability to overcome adversity, adapt and navigate her way through an experience of great loss in Year 8 was just remarkable and inspiring.

At the end of the evening, Gabi came up to me with a specific question. I got a chance too, to say thanks for the insights she shared and for how she impacted on the audience of mums, mentors and teenage girls.

Her daughter has completed the two Time and Space programs in sequence – The Father-Daughter in Year 7 and then the Mother-Daughter in Year 8. As a family – they have now done three of the four sessions available in the transition years of high school. As you know, Gabi and her boy did the Mother-Son this week.  

In our conversation, I shared a clear memory from the Father-Daughter night three years ago. Gabi seemed surprised but her husband stood out to me.

He explained how determined he had been not to miss the father-daughter night. He was seated, had a quiet satisfaction that he had made it. He had kind eyes. Gabi remembered and reflected...

“Oh yeah, we made a big effort to make it to that night. He made the journey down here from Melbourne.”

Often dads make big efforts to get to Time & Space events from work far away. It is humbling to witness the priority they put on being with their son or daughter.

This was different again. Gabi’s husband mustered the energy to be transported from the Royal Melbourne Hospital to be at the night with his daughter.  He had a terminal illness and passed away just a few months later.

You see Gabi’s question was opening up how we might tackle the Father-Son night for her boy next year. There is always provision for a mentor to be there if mum or dad is not around (and, as in this case, sometimes it is a sad reason). It is that care and foresight that makes Gabi a pretty obvious and ‘spot-able’ champion mum.

In saying on the panel that her daughter has inner strength – we kind of know how her girl has inherited that. Having affirmed her daughter’s quality Gabi went on to offer a message to the girls there on the night...

It also highlighted to me that our girls are strong. Without knowing the young ladies here this evening, I do know that you all have inner strength, because of the wonderful role models you have sitting beside you. I hope you always remember that.

It was evident to those of us there that we were in the presence of, to use Gabi’s words, a wonderful role-model. The principal of the school remarked to me afterwards that whilst Gabi didn’t specify the detail of her loss, a good number of the mums there would have been in the know.

That’s why I reckon Gabi’s story is a great example to share on Mother’s Day (here in Australia today). Gabi has courage. There’s selflessness in the way she first sees and acknowledges her daughter’s quality that emerged from that loss – a loss that was obviously Gabi’s as well. And then let’s regard the kindness in her forward planning to start thinking about a session for her son that will be happening in September 2015.

Let Gabi and her story represent the way mums give, the way so many mums sacrifice as a default action and the way mums are ‘extraordinary in the ordinary’.

This story is a gift for Gabi and her kids written on Mother’s Day 2014.

If you are reading this now it will be because Gabi (and the kids) said it was okay.                                                                                                                                                                               

  

Mungo - Busking for The Philippines

Some Time & Space Community people might know that Mem Fox’s picture book (illustrated by Julie Vivas), Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge gets a run in some of my presentations. It‘s a personal favourite. It is a story of a small boy who helps his ninety-six year old friend, Miss Nancy Alison Delacourt Cooper, in the nursing home next door to his house. I love the way he takes action to help her because she has lost her memory.

In the last few weeks I have found out about another extraordinary boy who lives locally. This seven year old boy, named Mungo, saw a problem and simply responded...  

Through November I was in the UK delivering some Time & Space programs there. I flew out on Melbourne Cup Tuesday. Our family had been away for the weekend and I knew something bad had happened in the Philippines... a massive storm but I had my head down whilst delivering the programs in England and never really took in what had happened.  

  

The morning after returning home Lisa sent me up the road to buy some milk where I bump into Gurdeep, a friendly bloke who works at our local IGA store. Gurdeep I think is a Sikh. He wears a turban, a beard that would make any inner city hipster proud and always, a big smile.    

“When is your band playing next?” asked Gurdeep.

He was referring to a band I’m in called SHeD, a bunch of four dads who met up years ago when our kids were at the local primary school. Our by-line is Four Blokes and a Guitar and we practice in my shed. We play occasional Saturday mornings outside the ‘Miller-on-Gilbert’ shops to create a vibe that emphasises the difference between a local precinct and a monolithic retail centre like Northland. The local traders chip in a few bucks and when people go to offer us some busking money, we say “This is a gift from the traders, spend your money in their shops”. It works well but be assured, none of us have given up our day jobs.

I tell Gurdeep, “We’re playing this weekend.” Gurdeep is a big fan of any rock’n’roll - he appears at the front of the shop, clapping along if we are playing Holy Grail or a big Elvis Presley tune.

“We’ve had the little kid play out the front here... have you heard about the kid?” Gurdeep asks.

“No I haven’t mate, I’ve been away,” I respond.

“ He plays his little guitar and he’s been in the paper.” It is clear Gurdeep has been captivated and is excited.

So Saturday comes and Mungo is walking on the other side of Gilbert Road. He lives with his mum Kathleen and Dave, his dad in one of the shops converted into their home. Mungo sees that SheD are playing out the front of Menuki Hairdressing across the road from him. He pops back inside and appears with his ukulele in one hand and a newspaper article in the other.

“Oh”, I think to myself, “that little kid Gurdeep was talking about is Mungo!”

Our band have watched him grow up through the years... he has always stopped and listened to the tunes. He is a serious, reflective little guy. This time he played along with us. He knows two numbers, House of the Rising Sun  and Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da. Our guitarist Stephen, follows Mungo and we sing along with him. 

Here’s the back story. Mungo and his parents, were sitting at the dinner table and chatting about a story that dominated our news services in early November. Just like Wilfred Gordon, Kathleen says, “he is always asking questions” and his dad had been listening to the ABC news on the radio for the developing consequences of Typhoon Haiyan. It captured Mungo’s attention. As he asked more questions and talked with his dad, he started to imagine and understand simple comparisons about things we might overlook. Mungo wondered what it might be like to lose all his toys.

He also wondered if there was something he could do about it. At the dinner table that night, the idea that Mungo came up with was that he might be able to busk, playing his ukulele for the people of the Philippines as he once had made about $8 playing out the front of his shop front home. Dave, his dad explained about Oxfam, so he made a sign to that effect and people chipped in. Next Mungo was allowed to play outside the IGA. Oxfam heard through Mungo’s dad what he was doing and they gave him a temporary blog to track his goal towards raising $500. From there the photographer headed down and took some shots for the Herald-Sun story.

Mungo has just finished in Year 1 and as the Oxfam website states he has, in recent weeks, “shown you are never too young to be a role-model”.

Kathleen says that his Principal called him up recently at the Prep, Year 1 and 2 assembly and he started telling the Preppies that “a typhoon is like a really big whirlwind”. The school are having to review their policies as well as Mungo, as a Year 1 isn’t old enough yet to go on the student social justice committee! 

 

As the penny dropped and it became evident that Mungo had started a typhoon of goodness, I quickly checked with the boys in the band and all agreed that there was no way we could put the money the traders gave us that day into our own pockets. I went in to collect from Fiona the hairdresser who owns Menuki. She had seen Mungo playing with us and I let her know that the money today is going to his campaign. Instead of handing over the usual $20, Fiona doubles it and says “give him this as well.”

The next shop is Glo Beauty and as I tell Monique behind the counter, Mungo’s story, a lady who has just had a treatment is standing next to me, ready to pay. The lady’s name is Margaret, she hears about Mungo’s efforts and pulls twenty bucks out of her purse, hands me the money and says “give it to that wonderful boy”. Mum, Kathleen who is Mungo’s blog manager credits Margaret’s contribution. Mungo has well and truly surpassed his $500 goal and as I write the growing total is $3042 AUD for Oxfam. You can check out the current total here, even add to it if you wish. Mungo, this is mighty.

At the end of Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge, there’s a beautiful line...

                And the two of them smiled and smiled

                because Miss Nancy’s memory had been found again

                by a small boy, who wasn’t very old either.

This post is sent out at Christmas. It doesn’t matter if you are religious or not – Christmas has a huge theme of giving. The story that underpins Christmas has central figures who were homeless on that night – as the nativity narrative goes, the baby was born in a stable at the back of the inn with the ‘no vacancy’ sign... there are people right now, still homeless in the Philippines.

Just like Wilfred Gordon I reckon Mungo has helped us to remember what’s important.  His story has sparked the kindness in other people’s hearts... his action has been so profoundly simple that it has been easy for people to support and join Mungo in his cause.

 It is a powerful little example of how one person’s action can make the world a better place and on this occasion that kindness has come from Mungo... who isn’t very old either.

As always, thanks for reading - feel free to add your comments in the box below. You can click the Anonymous link to write a comment. It is always appreciated if you include your name next at the end of the comment.

Bill Jennings - Creator and Founder of Time & Space

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The Tram Ride Home

From the day this story is posted consider how time has moved since these two events.

It is 42 days since Adam Goodes was called an ‘ape’ at the MCG by a 13-year-old girl.

It is 44 days since Private Lee Rigby was hacked to death in Woolwich in the UK.

If you read this blog in Australia, the Adam Goodes story preoccupied the nation for about a week. With regard to the Woolwich story, it doesn’t matter where in the world you read this blog... you would have heard news about the murder of Lee Rigby.

Do you ever feel naive when the media circus, pulls out the tent pegs, packs up and heads away in search of the next story? I do. The fervent discussion on talkback radio, the collective introspection that goes with big news, evaporates as quickly as the storm brews up.

What do we learn?

What enables us to be different the next time?

I reckon it is the moments of chance learning we get that don’t make world news.

So, 41 days ago the Adam Goodes and Lee Rigby events had happened. They were unrelated, yet both race related. They were curdling in my mind as this 'chance learning' happened on the 112 tram...

My daughter Amber and I have been going to the footy for years. Her younger brother has come along with us most of that time but on this Saturday night, it was just me and her. Just like when she was little. Our team Essendon had won. We had beaten the Tigers in the big Dreamtime match at the MCG.

We walked through Fitzroy Gardens to get to our tram stop. We talked along the path. Both of us agreed that there was something unusual in the atmosphere that night. The crowd of over 80000 people had been noticeably quiet. The Dreamtime game is meant to be a celebration of the contribution of indigenous players to Aussie Rules. But something sad had happened at that ground on the previous night. Something that didn’t fit the script. That was the night Adam Goodes, an aboriginal champion of the game, had been racially vilified during the final stages of the Collingwood-Sydney game. Amber and I both wondered if that rupture, on the same ground, had placed our crowd into that subdued, reflective state.

That week, I had been working flat stick and only caught snippets of the brutal murder of a British soldier, in the broad daylight in a London high street. Having only snippets suited me, in a way, because this attack felt new. It was disturbing and hard to let in. The Lee Rigby story also brought up a familiar sense of anxiety, uncertainty. It is irrational and a bit embarrassing to say but I felt afraid. I remember feeling the same way after September 11.

We got to tram stop near St Vincent’s Hospital. Well, when Amber was six it was a tram stop. These days it’s called a Super Stop. That distinction is made because we had to top up our Myki cards. That meant I had to open my wallet. It was getting late so I scanned the characters waiting at the super stop.

There were two aboriginal women who walked up to the stop and past us. One of the ladies had no shoes. They were pretty tipsy and happy. A sad scene but their jovial, boisterous ways made me smile. There was a familiarity that didn’t feel threatening... I had seen this before.

A man was sitting right near the Myki machine... he had darkish skin too but I was pretty sure he wasn’t aboriginal. He had a vacant expression on his face. He was looking forward and not giving even any fleeting eye contact. I felt uncomfortable as I started to put my credit cards on the Myki machine to top up my card.

I’m placing myself here at your judgement but a friend of mine says that if we write, we have to be prepared to share something that we don’t like in ourselves... something from the shadows, something that might even disgust us about ourselves. This reads pretty heavy I know but put simply, I was frightened of this man. I wondered if he might be muslim. Specifically, an extreme Islamist.

Here are my irrational thought processes, my inner dialogue...

... that soldier died this week because he was a soldier. I’m not a soldier, I’ll be OK. This guy looks like he might be a Muslim. Maybe the next random attack is going to be on a random westerner. Hey that could be me. Bill don’t be an idiot. You know most muslims are not extremists. He’s not going to attack you. But then again, you never know...

So, Amber and I (and my irrational thoughts) got on the tram... with this man. We found two seats in a booth with a couple who had come from the city. The man I was frightened of took his seat a couple of booths away taking one of four seats on his own. The aboriginal ladies lit up the tram with laughter and got off two stops later.

Next our attention turned to some young blokes who also had had a few drinks. They weren’t full hipsters but tertiary students with a lot of young fella confidence and bits of facial hair... they enjoyed the mix between their intellectuality and their ripe language. They were making outlandish, bravado fuelled remarks about the young women they knew... very loudly. Their demeanour was so overconfident and so loud and so oblivious to the rest of the passengers that they were actually quite amusing. The other two people in our booth, a man and a woman were smirking. These lads were very happy for themselves. If on the other hand, my paranoid profiling of the man sitting on his own was indeed correct and he was an extreme Islamist, then these young blokes had done nothing to argue a case in support of the modesty and decorum of the infidels! They were pretty crass. In a couple more stops they were off, congratulating each other as to how funny each of them really were. This was such a typical Friday night tram ride home along Brunswick Street... a classic mix of footy crowd along with others coming back from the restaurants and pubs.

Two stops later, a lady was giving a warm hug at the stop to two friends she had dined with. Well dressed, middle aged, Caucasian and attractive looking... she got on the tram, waved and blew a few extra kisses to her friends. Another tipsy person was with us. The tram took off with one of those jolts that could throw you off balance if you were fully sober. The lady was flung in a pirouette... she did a full 180 degree turn, flung out her hand, grabbed a rail, swung again and fell, into the lap of the man I was afraid of.

“Oh, how are you?” said the well dressed, tipsy lady.

She remained on the man’s lap longer than she should have.

The man spoke in a gentle voice, “I am fine thanks, a little tired actually.”

Somehow he managed to assist the lady off his lap. She slid and slotted into the space next to him. There was room for her to create some space, move and take the seat opposite but she sat snuggled right in, in a flirty fashion. The lady looked around the tram and saw a few footy scarves adorning some of the passengers.

She asked the man, “Have you been to the footy?”

“No I have been working tonight in the city,” he replied, “I did see the score at about half time.” The man’s accent was hard to place... middle eastern maybe? Maybe not. His voice sounded kind. My fears was dissipating and being replaced by a feeling best described as foolishness.

“Oh, who was playing?” the lady asked.

“I know Richmond was one team, I go for Richmond but I think we might have been losing.” Wow. I thought. This extremist guy goes for the Tigers.

“I go for the magpies... that was bad what happened to Adam Goodes last night – are you aboriginal?” the lady asked very forwardly.

“No, I am from Afghanistan,” said the man.

“Oh, are you a muslim?” asked the lady.

The ladies questions raised a few eyebrows again. The people in our four seat booth – the young couple, Amber and I, didn’t say anything with our words but our glances at each other said, “this has been an interesting tram ride!”

The man was very patient. He answered every question the lady asked him.

We were witness to a fascinating conversation. The gentle way the man’s intuition summed up that the lady was tipsy, and meant no harm, gave her permission in turn to take the conversation deeper and deeper.

We heard her talk about a documentary she had seen that week on TV. She connected it with the murder of the soldier in London – the program was about Islamic fundamentalism.

As she spoke, you detected that the lady was qualifying as she heard more of the man’s story, “Of course fundamentalism is the same in all religions... it has tragic effects whether it is Christian fundamentalism or any other religion, not just Islamic extremism.”

“That’s right" said the man. "I am a muslim but those men in London don’t represent me. Their behaviour is against Islam... all of the big religions ask us not to hurt another human. In fact, even as a muslim man, I have been affected first hand by Islamic fundamentalism...”

And so his story was told and the lady listened. Amber and I and the couple and everyone around couldn’t help but eavesdrop. For the second time that night, the place we were in went unusually quiet...

We heard how his particular tribe in Afghanistan had been a happy group of people. He remembered untroubled times when with his tribe, there was singing, dancing and regular celebrating. Then the Taliban came. They took some of his friends, and then his brother-in-law. They learnt that all of them were killed.

When he was a teenager he came to Australia. Because of the danger... because he is now ‘Australia’s responsibility’, as he put it, he can’t go back to Afghanistan. The only way he can see his family is if they come to the border and cross into Pakistan. He had managed to do that a couple of times, we think we heard him share with the lady.

The couple got off the tram and it wound around into Miller Street.

The man kept talking and shared that eventually he wants to bring his mother and family to Australia.

Amber distinctly heard him say, “but that is a dream for the future.”

The tram got to the Gilbert Road turn and the lady said, “This is my stop, I need to get off.” She sounded more quiet now.

“Thank you” she said.

“It was wonderful to talk with you. Nice to meet you.” A simple statement of gratitude by the man.

Two stops later it was Amber and my turn to get off. We walked down the side street to our home in West Preston where we have lived in peace for all of her life.

“You just never know what you’re going to get on that 112 tram, do you dad?” Amber remarked.

“Very true Amber,” I replied.

And quietly I thought back with some embarrassment to the way I had painted the man as a potential threat. I didn’t feel frightened any more. I had heard his story.

I felt grateful to have heard the man’s gentleness. I think it affected everyone within earshot of him on that tram ride home.

All I can say is that I hope his dream comes true.





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98 Anzac Days

Arch walks us out to the car. We stand on the footpath outside his Lindisfarne home and look out over the Derwent River and the Tasman Bridge. For a few minutes we chat about the view. Arch is very understated. He says something about how you can get a good look at the water from a lot of angles in Hobart.

The other person in the picture is my son, Jack. Whenever he features in one of these stories, I make sure to ask what he remembers. He remembered this simple scene.

I asked him, “Why did you remember that part?”

“Dad, because he walked us out to the car,” Jack recalled, “and Dad, do you remember? That driveway was steep and how old was Archie then? It was the time of the World Cup in 2006, I was nearly ten, Archie was like, 91?”

Parts of my memory that are smudged, Jack remembers and restores them like an old painting. He brought back into the clear, Archie’s old world courtesy. He saw out his guests – simple kindness. Paul Kelly once wrote in his song about Don Bradman, let the part tell the whole.

How did we get to visit Arch and his wife, Helen? They are the parents of someone who I’m fortunate to call a friend. I learnt that day that the family call him ‘Mart’. Readers of The Age would know him as, senior writer and author, Martin Flanagan. I had always felt buoyed by his stories. He makes images and sounds with his written words. I feel like his words, speak for me, only far more eloquently. We met in 1998 at a conference where Martin was the last speaker. I had plucked up the courage to go up and say ‘thanks for your writing’. He responded with a warm ‘thanks for that’ back and, with a smile in his eye. I recognised that same characteristic in his dad’s eyes when he opened the door to welcome me and my son, on that day in June, 2006. In the hallway I recall there were stacks of Age newspapers piled high, mementoes of Martin’s work.

Yesterday I went out to my shed where I have a filing cabinet full of stuff like the notes I have kept from that education conference. I found a page of quotes and reflections I’d scribbled from the talk Martin gave. On that day I learnt that his dad was a veteran of what is known by the soldiers as ‘The Line’, the infamous Thai-Burma Railway that was built by allied Prisoners of War in the Second World War. Martin wrote that ‘it is said that one man died for every sleeper that was laid’. In barbaric conditions, hungry, and bare footed, the POW’s worked eighteen hour days to break open enough of a cutting to put the railway line through. Their leader was Colonel Edward ‘Weary’ Dunlop. With Weary, that often overused description, 'legend' remains undiluted by his acts of leadership, courage and service to his men who worked on 'The Line'. 

In my notes, a direct quotation from Martin is there...

“I didn’t know my father’s totems.”

And below it are the words, “you’ve got to tell me dad”.

In 2005 some of that ‘telling’ happened as father and son, Arch and Martin, published The Line – a man’s experience; a son’s quest to understand. I commend it to you. Arch does not waste a word.

So back to how we came to be visiting Arch and Helen? The young bloke and I were in Hobart. I rang Martin in Melbourne to let him know I was in Tassie, his country. I had recently read The Line. Martin suggested that if I wanted, he could set up a chance for me to go and visit his mum and dad.

“Are you sure Marty?” I asked.

“No worries Billy, they are always having visitors over and they love it.”

So in Jack and me went. Arch ushered Jack straight to the lounge room and turned on the telly for him and I was taken to the kitchen table where scones and cups of tea were being produced in quantity by Helen. We talked footy and ordinary things. Martin’s sister Jo, popped over with her daughter. I remember the care that Arch and Helen’s grand-daughter had for them. I remember too that I wanted to bring the young bloke into the kitchen. Arch had thought he mightn’t have wanted to sit and chat but of course, he was welcome. Jack loves to this day, being around older generations.

More scones and cups of tea were consumed and then it was time to go.

There was one tangible memory Martin mentioned in the book. His dad had crafted a personal tribute and I asked Arch if I could see it.

Arch took me to the hallway and there was the simple tribute mounted on the wall. Martin described how it came to be there in The Line.

Weary had a small grey splinter of Hintock rock on his desk in his rooms... When he died it was given to me. I gave it to dad who made a small monument with it. On one side of the rock is a photograph of Weary... Then written in a felt pen like slashes in the bare unvarnished wood are the names of the men he knew who died up there... On the bottom of the plain bit of board are the simple words are ‘Lest I Forget.’

I remember I wanted my boy to see the little monument that Arch had made for his mates who never came back from the Hellfire Pass.

Jack remembers that Arch walked us out to the car.

In my notes, I have written...

His (Martin’s) Father – All that mattered was humanity.

This story is posted on ANZAC Day. Arch was born in 1914... so he was a six month old baby when Australian and New Zealand soldiers landed at Gallipoli. On Tuesday, Arch died two days before the 98th anniversary of ANZAC.

It was privilege to meet him.




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And here is Martin's article about The Line that was published in The Age (September 4, 2005).

When a Dream is Unhindered

Late last century, a network of Melbourne boys’ schools were each asked to send a senior student, one of their finest, to an education conference. The organisers had dreamed up a heady topic, ‘Boys’ Education for the New Millenium’. Mark, a friend and mentor of many years, had phoned me and asked for some help in developing a youth panel session. He wanted authenticity. He wanted the true insights of these young blokes.

I’ve been to plenty of education conferences where the ‘voices of the students’ section is wooden and cringey. It wasn’t like that with this group. In fact they were of such calibre that the facilitation was easy. The memories of that project have come flooding back in the last 24 hours for a specific reason... but more on that in a moment.

Mark and I felt we needed to get the fellas talking to each other and we wanted to give them time to consider what they might say on the panel. So a couple of weeks before the event, we took them off to Matteo’s in Brunswick Street (and yes, being seventeen, eighteen year old boys, they smashed down three large courses each). I knew the pressure was on for this group of kids to come up with something outstanding when I saw the bulging eyes of the conference organiser fixing on the bill!

He need not have worried, the chats over that dinner were a privilege to be a part of.... We asked them: what fires your spirit; who inspires you; what is your passion and what have been the instructive moments in your life, both the euphoric and tough times. We wanted to hear their stories and the group of young men did not disappoint. Mark and I knew by the time our meal had concluded that it was money well spent.

I have always remembered this group of young men and yesterday I was reminded of one of them again. The impression he gave is still clear. He knew what his passion was and he was full of gratitude for the people who had supported him in pursuit of it...

“All my life, I have loved music,” observed the young man.

He was captain of his school. I remembered thinking at the time how great it was that his peers and teachers had picked him. Boys’ schools have worked really hard in the last couple of decades at expanding the previously narrow concept of what made you a good bloke, an acceptable male. How good is it that a musician, not the hero of the first XVIII, was school captain.

The young man continued to tell his story. I remember his eloquence on the panel and how he impacted on the audience of adults. Looking out, you could see how struck they were with the clarity of his dream and how it had been unhindered by his important people.

It is nearly fifteen years ago, so the memory of his exact words is not here. The sentiment is.

Here are those sentiments I remember...

My mum and dad have always taken my dream seriously.

I love what I feel when I make music.

It is what I want to do with my life and my parents have always just supported me in that dream. Never have they suggested another, safer path.

The young man made an impact on me and his story helped to confirm a hunch I have always had... that if people, particularly young people, know what they want then the momentum of their motivation becomes an unstoppable force. When the dream is pure and fuelled by loved ones who cheer for the young person, when there is no clash of ambition between the elders and the young dreamer, then anything can happen.

Why do I know this? Because that young man just won three Grammy awards. Back in 1998 he introduced himself to the group as Wally. His full name is Wouter (Walter) de Backer, known to the music world and his fans as Gotye.



Thanks for giving yourself some 'Time & Space' to read this. As always, feel free to write your responses in the space below.

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A Father’s Gift

Arthur is putting in the last couple of rows of chairs for a parent information night.

I like to get to my presentations early and often, I bump into someone like Arthur, the maintenance man at a boys’ school where I run the Time & Space programs. I wander in with 216 sheets of paper under my arm.

“What can I do for you mate?” asks Arthur.

Arthur has got that friendly mix – he greets this new person whilst he is also busy, doing his job (and proudly, I might add).

“I’m here to talk with the parents tonight.” I explain. “My name’s Bill, by the way.”

“No worries, I’m Arthur, good to meet you Bill. So what’s written on those papers?” he asks.

I reply, “I’ve just run a session with the whole Year 9 level and each boy was challenged to write to their dad (or mentor) a ‘thankyou’ note and then to give it to him when they next see him.”

Arthur has finished now and the room looks great. He’s curious and asks another question.

“Do you reckon that what the kids write, sticks? Or do they just think it in the session and then forget what they’ve written later?”

“I reckon that the kids who actually hand the note over are saying something. You know, we encourage them to hand the note to their dad... but we don’t actually make them do it.”

“Yeah – I just wonder,” muses Arthur, “I reckon some kids have got too much these days. My kids sometimes were disappointed when they saw their friends being given things... because I told them I’d never buy them a car. That’s something they’d have to earn.”

Arthur is starting to tell his remarkable story and in that sharing what he values.

He continues, “there are some things, I’m only too happy to give them. I’m past 65 now and should be retired. My youngest is 16, still in school and looks like she’ll being going through Uni. I might be working for a while yet.”

“How many kids Arthur?” I ask.

“Three... the oldest boy went here. He’s 27. The middle one’s – she’s 23, and the little one.”

“How have they gone?”

“They’ve done good,” a proud half-smile curls from the corner of Arthur’s mouth, “the oldest one has a double degree in Management and Engineering. The middle one has a Masters in Dietetics.” He goes on to say, “I’ve told them - I’ll look after their education. I want them to have what I never got.”

Arthur left school at 13. He explains to me that education is not the only thing he’s missed out on.

“As soon as I was born, my dad took off. I never met him. So I’ve had no role-model to work off,” Arthur explains. “Until I was 7 or 8 I lived in an orphanage in Bendigo because my mum couldn’t cope with me and my older brother on her own. Then later we moved back to live with her in St. Kilda where, it was pretty rough and ready and I kind of...”, Arthur pauses for a moment and looks at me, “well you kinda learnt to protect yerself, you know what I mean?”

In the midst of this extraordinary conversation, a couple of times I hear Arthur say things about himself as a person and specifically, himself as a dad like, “look I’m not perfect” and “I’m no angel.”

It is pleasing to let him know that a big theme in this Time & Space work is to reassure mums and dads that no parent is perfect,

“I reckon it’s all about ‘turning up’ Arthur and supporting our kids... you have done that in spades and, you’ve come from a lot further back than most. You know Arthur, I reckon if your kids had the chance to do the ‘thankyou’ activity the boys did today, you would have heard how grateful they are for your gift of education.”

“They’ve done that, in not so many words,” Arthur replies, “them doing well is thanks enough for me.”

As he speaks I am reminded of the pivotal message that Steve Biddulph penned in his best-seller, Manhood – an action plan for changing men’s lives.

Every father, however much he puts on a critical or indifferent exterior, will spend his life waiting at some deep level to know that his (children) love him and respect him. Make sure you absorb this point. He will spend his life waiting.

As I’m remembering that, Arthur is still thinking about my question about his kids ‘saying thanks’ and a special recent memory has sparked.

“There was this one time last year with the youngest one, she’s a bewdy... I reckon she’s got the best of me as a dad. You know, you sometimes work it out a bit better when they come around for the third time...”

I nod. I reckon he’s right.

“My brother-in-law turned 70. He’s up in Queensland. I couldn’t go up for the party but the young one travelled up with my wife” there’s a full smile on Arthur’s face now... “I went to ring my brother-in-law up to say ‘happy birthday’, his daughter was going to get him and I hear my young one in the background, say ‘I want to talk to dad’, and she jumped on the phone...”

Arthur’s voice quavers a bit now... and as he continues, his eyes well up.

“She just got on the phone, and straight away said, ‘I miss you dad!’”

He looks me straight in the eye saying, “That really got me.”

Arthur never knew his dad. If your dad is around this Father’s day, let him know, with your words, what you are thankful to him about. It will mean a bit more than the traditional pairs of socks and jocks!

Arthur’s young daughter’s spontaneous message on the phone showed that you don’t have to do much, to make even a lifetime’s effort, like her dad Arthur trying to be the best dad he can be, seem all worthwhile.

To all the dads reading this, Happy Fathers Day.
Bill Jennings
www.time-space.com.au

Running Alongside his Students

The great thing about blogposts is that they can sometimes be a slow burn (Paul Kelly reputedly took years to write To her Door) or in this case, immediate inspiration impels that the story just has to be recorded now.

Eric Hill has left the building... Well, he just left the (geography) room at the International Boys School Coalition Conference that's happening in Melbourne at Scotch College all this week. I have just been witness to a man outlining a running program that Eric likes to call 'therapy in disguise'. I have to say it was an honour to be present as a good man outlined a passion that he used to benefit others.

Now Eric is a serious runner. His students at school each year, after he runs in the New York marathon, ask if he won. He tells them that he probably couldn't beat the winners on a bicycle. What is extraordinary is that this guy said that he has run the New York marathon for as many years as he can remember. We didn't get a number - simply, it was that he has run the marathon for a lot of years. Witnessing him explain these interactions, it is so obvious that this man is role-modelling the value of persistence, the pleasure of finishing and working at, and reaching a goal.

I just heard him saying to a colleague as he left the presentation room, "Man, I am wiped out." Remember this bloke is a runner. Eric was spent emotionally. Why? I suspect because he had just prepared and, put on the line, a significant account of the body of teaching work he has created over his time as a PE teacher at St Bernard's Boys School in New York. He explained to our workshop cluster of about 20 people that, "at 11.25am, it was looking ugly." What he is describing here is that feeling that workshop presenters get in the pit of their stomachs when the time to start approaches. This session was starting at 11.30am and he told us that virtually nobody had turned up with five minutes to go. I was one of the last ones in but by that time there where good numbers in to hear and see Eric's presentation of his extraordinary work with his students.

So, the thumbnail sketch is that Eric, with a team of dedicated colleagues has built a running program that boys at the school can sign up for, regardless of their fitness levels or athletic ability. It happens during timetabled classes. They run in Central Park, around the reservoir, through the tunnels. They don't just run, they do boy things like picking up sticks and having sword fights along the way. In the tunnels, of course a group of 30 boys make a holy racket and ensure that their shouting creates the full echoing boom effect as they yell their way through that part of the run. They run in the heat of summer and yes, they run too in the depths of winter, even when New York is under snow, he takes the kids outside for snowball fights. Eric Hill, who this blogger has never met before, outlined a career that I sense has a crucial underpinning... he has never forgotten what it is like to be a boy.

There are a page of scribbled notes here next to me full of Eric Hill 'gold'. They come from this amazing video that a colleague put together about the program. There were beautiful quotations from students and what follows too, are the choice phrases I wrote down as Eric shared his vignettes.

From the boys one young man said that he enjoys the competitive elements that are available in the program but his deepest enjoyment came from "running, just for running itself." I ask you, how often do our kids these days consciously articulate that they do something just because of the intrinsic value and enjoyment they derive from that pursuit? Standing out too, through the brilliant video story is student after student putting emphasis on the word 'love'. Describing the experience of a race, one of the boys paused and said "I... loved... running in that race".... as he said the word 'loved', you could see the boy's smile matching the glistening in his eye.

The video concluded. The group broke into spontaneous applause. Eric then took questions about the program.

Here's a few things he said.

"I don't cut anybody (from the running program), I don't care how slow you are."

"We run with the kids." Isn't this a powerful metaphor for assisting young people through adolescence on their way to healthy adulthood?

Eric observed how the boys really 'talk' with each other when they are out running. They share things as they run alongside each other. Topics that would never be covered inside the four walls of the classroom. He observed that there was something in that 'alongside' talking... boys running and talking side to side seemed to help discussion that might be different eye to eye.

We heard about a boy in the team whose family, a few years earlier, had gone through a divorce. That boy's mum told Eric it is the only time, when he is running or, gets back home from running, that she ever sees him smile.

Eric then put up another picture on the screen of a group of four boys in his charge. They were all smiling, beaming in fact after an inter-school event. One of the boys in the picture is the self-appointed chief distance measurer of the whole running group. You could see a little computer chip in his shoe. Eric would get reports from this boy's iPhone after every session. These four young men were a relay team who had come fifth in a race with five teams.
 
These kids might have come last in their race but Eric proudly declared that that little team had "won just by being there".

And for all the people in the workshop today, we won 'just by being there' because we experienced the delight and privilege of hearing a good man humbly sharing his story. A story that has ignited a passion for running and more deeply, a passion for living in a countless group of New York boys down the years. More power to you Eric.

As always, feel free to write your own thoughts in the space below.

Maybe you can give a 'shout out' for the person who has 'run alongside' you in your life.


Bill Jennings

http://www.time-space.com.au/

Josh's Story

Josh is a Year 12 student at The Hutchins School in Hobart. He spoke as a panellist at a Time & Space night I facilitated for a group of Year 8 boys (average age 13) and their dads or mentors. He offered an insight that smashed a stereotype. You know the one: that wisdom only comes from people with grey hair and wrinkles.

Josh was asked to mention a quality that he saw in his dad and to offer an example of that quality. He shared something unusual from a person his age.

“My dad’s best quality is his ability to give advice,” Josh offered the audience.

There’s nothing unusual about giving out advice. For those of us who are parents reading this, we are experts at giving out advice. If you’re one of the young people who read these articles, you probably feel that sometimes our advice giving just turns into white noise. I’m sure my two teenagers agree with me (for a change) on this point.

So there is plenty that is simply unusual about a son saying that ‘giving advice’ is his dad’s best quality. Josh was asked to offer an example. He told a story. As you read it, Josh’s wisdom is obvious – he can look back and see himself growing, see himself realising and see himself taking responsibility. The other wise character in this story is Josh’s dad. He didn’t come along to the night. I have never met him and that adds something to the marvel and mystery that his son nominated his ‘advice giving’ as his best quality.

Josh started the story saying that “my father gave me an anchor point.”

Josh remembers that it was November 2003 when he first received the slip of paper. His dad had copied out and written an anonymous quotation that had captured his eye in the local newspaper, The Mercury. As a then Grade 3 boy, Josh read the words, thought they were good and put them somewhere. That somewhere was not anywhere special because after a time, he lost that slip of paper. His dad noticed this. He knows that his dad noticed because at a certain time in 2004, he received the same quotation again, written in his dad’s hand, on a fresh slip of paper. And, yes... he held on to that slip for a while before he lost it again. This happened again in 2005, 2006 and 2007.

“It just ended up getting lost and discarded,” was the way Josh described what had become an annual practice.

Don’t you love the way stories, really good ones, have delightful coincidence infused through them. Josh was talking to some fathers, mentors and their Year 8 boys and it was in 2008, when Josh was in Year 8, that he received the slip of paper from his dad again. He received it for the last time. Why?

Because this time Josh said “I kept it, I know where that piece of paper is right now – it’s in my wallet.” Josh went on to explain, “It’s old and tatty but I know it is there and I get it out regularly when I need some inspiration.” You get the sense that Josh likes the learning he gets from the words but don’t you think that as he gets out that now four year-old slip of paper, he also knows he is holding a tangible example of his dad’s advice.

What’s the gold in his dad’s particular style of advice giving? It was delivered with planning, with patience and meted out on one rare occasion each year. With the utmost respect to Josh (because it sometimes takes me more than six years to get a message) I heard someone say this year, that we can send an email 12 000 miles across the globe in a second. Yet it can sometimes be years for it to travel that last eighth of an inch through the bone in our skull.

Josh told Year 8 boys that in Year 8, he finally got the message his dad was giving him just once a year, patiently until he finally took it in.

In preparing for my role as facilitator of these panels, I usually read out the questions over the phone and offer the young people who will be on the panel like Josh - an opportunity to talk through what they would say. Josh chatted for a while but then said, “I’m good now. I just want to take the next couple of hours to make sure I do this panel role right tonight.”

And in going off to do that extra preparation I think Josh did something else. He showed that he has embodied the words on that slip of paper:

Aim a little higher.

Go a little further.

Do a little better.

In taking the time to prepare, Josh showed that he does this as a matter of course now. And in doing that he honours his father.

What Can Parents Draw from Josh’s dad?

Put a premium on your advice. Josh’s dad was patient. He gave his son the piece of paper once a year. He was happy to wait until his son learnt the lesson and took ownership of the words. What might happen to the advice we give to our kids if we even halved the frequency with which you dish it out? When commodities become rare, they increase in value. Maybe the same rule applies to advice given in the right time and space.

What can Young People learn from Josh?

Josh thought carefully about the best quality he sees in his dad. Take the time to consider the special gifts that your mum, dad or guardian has. Find the right time and space to let them know specifically what you see as their best qualities. Maybe even write them a letter and surprise them. Watch their reaction if you follow through on this!

As always you are welcome to share your responses in the space below.

What's a great piece of advice you have received? Who offered it? Why is it so valuable to you?

Bill Jennings
http://www.time-space.com.au/

A Mighty Mentor

The star of this story signs off her messages to the world with the words... Be inspired. Be Inspiring. The words stand in comfortable alignment with the way she lives her life.

Just before you go on reading, please, stop...

... for a moment...

... and think of a person who is a mentor to you, a role-model of kindness and generosity. Formulate the picture of their face or say their name quietly to yourself.

I met Marie Farrugia in 2010. We were both at one of my first monthly meetings of the National Speakers Association of Australia. Having made the jump from full-time teaching into the Time & Space program work, someone had suggested joining NSAA. Hard to believe if you’ve met this shy little blogger, but there I was shaking amongst these people who had being doing professional speaking for years. I felt almost frozen to the spot. Have you ever stood in one of those new spaces and thought who do I talk to next? I was pushing myself every month to turn up and be amongst these people who, as an occupational trait, present as larger than life and very confident on the outside. A lady with a beaming smile made a beeline through the crowd and was heading towards me.

“Hi Bill, I’m Marie”. The greeting couldn’t have felt more sincere but “hang on”, I thought to myself, “how does she know my name?” The answer came in a second...

“I was at the Marcellin College Mother & Son night, thank you so much” And then Marie said, “come and meet some people”. Suddenly I’m shaking hands with people and being introduced by Marie to her colleagues of many years. Some of these people had built highly successful businesses.

“Please meet Bill, he just presented an experience last month for me and my boy that we will never forget.” Marie’s welcome was effusive. It was at that moment that a shift occurred deep inside your (yes I know you don’t believe but I’ll keep saying) shy blogger. A colleague had affirmed that the Time & Space experience had made a difference to her. She helped me believe in myself, that I was doing professional presentation work. It was real.

Marie, The Mighty Farrug'(*), as I call her, made an offer to help, be a mentor in my speaking development. We caught up not long after that meeting and a friendship has grown from there. I became aware hearing Marie share her story, that she has had her challenges – one being in the form of breast cancer. When I met Marie, she was emerging from a successful regime of treatment. We had attended events each had presented at, to be present as a supportive colleague. I was the only bloke at a session in Hawthorn where she was trying a new presentation. I thought it was brilliant. Little did I know that as she told the story of her discovery of the lump during that presentation, that only that week, had she secretly learnt that the cancer was back. In 2011, we didn’t see Marie much at all at NSAA meetings as the disease had spread. The battle was on.

Marie's hospital was just near the venue of our NSAA meetings. So I visited on my way in. The memory is still strong and clear - I can see her sparkling smile that welcomed me in. It transferred a lightness of spirit that I'm sure humbled every visitor. There's no question she was physically weakened by the gruelling medical interventions. Yet typically, this mighty person was ‘other focussed’, so keen to hear the news of our colleagues, excited to learn the latest developments for the Time & Space programs and offering, as always, generous practical tips. Here was my friend and mentor, seriously ill, demonstrating that every moment presents us with a choice about how we deal with it.

I appreciate that not everyone gets the result they want when cancer strikes. I am mindful of our friend Jacinta who is in the battle right now. Her husband Jim, tells similar stories of Jac's extraordinary determination. From July 2009 up to his passing on March 20 this year, Jim Stynes' intentionally invited us all to share in and learn from his story. We are unlikely to ever forget the dignity of his struggle. Anne Lamott in her beautiful book Bird by Bird, refers a few times to a dear inspiring friend who had cancer. Anne recalled her friend’s doctor, when the terminal stages had arrived, remarking that, “in these final weeks, she is showing you how to live.”

Just recently I got an email from Marie. I am pleased to report she is going well again. Why am I telling you her story now? Because in that email she sent this beautiful clip she had made called ‘Do it For Me.’



So this is a shout out to the Mighty Farrug'(*). Thanks for your example Marie. And what's one thing we could all do that could honour that example? I reckon maybe if that person you thought of at the start of this post is a phone call or an email away, how about about simply letting them know that it was their name that you whispered to yourself. Feel free to forward this story to them as well in a 'pay it forward' kind of way.

Thanks for giving yourself the Time & Space to read this.  Who are your mighty mentors? As always, feel free to share your thoughts and stories in the space below.

Bill Jennings
http://www.time-space.com.au/

* Pronounciation goes something like this the Mighty Farroodge (Hard 'dg' sound).

Marie's website - http://www.timeforyou.com.au/ 

IWD 2012- a gift to share

A 'choose you own adventure' post today. Very interactive - click on the click-able bits of the post as you wish.

Here is a gift for you for International Women's Day (the poem at the start is only 3 or 4 minutes). If you are a bloke reading this - pass this on to a great woman in your life.

On first seeing this... it took my breath away. In fact the second woman on the incomplete list below received the hard cover copy of this poem as a gift when she graduated from high school last year. It was given to her by me and the first named woman on the list...

This is an an incomplete list (sorry if I have missed you) that honours: the brilliant women in this blogger's immediate world; women I am lucky to call friend; women who inspire; women who have participated in a Time & Space Mother-Son or Mother-Daughter program (and wrote their name on the evaluation sheet) and, some women I haven't actually met but whose work and ideas I respect.

And this is an incomplete list of course because, as always, you are welcome to join in the discussion in the REPLY box below... feel free to add your honourable mentions and tell us a bit about the great women in your life.

So here goes (in no particular order, except for the first one) ...

Lisa J (aka The Mighty Lisa)... best friend and soul-mate,

Amber J - A young woman with great taste in Indie music (Dan Mangan is a recent addition to this blogger's iTunes account thanks to Amber J). There is a wonderful combination of toughness and gentleness in Amber. The other day I saw her consuming her course reading notes before she actually had her first class on her first day at university. I admire Amber's courage, kindness and zest for life. Me and the Mighty Lisa's first-born.

Joan J - the lady who listened to how my day was at school for thousands of afternoons in the seventies and eighties. She does brilliant work these days as a spiritual director, and granny, amongst many other roles that include being my mum.

Clare McG - super nursing director and mum who is hosting an exchange student, Lara, from Germany this year because well, she thought it would be a great experience for her pre-school and primary school kids. That is generous. Clare is my favourite sister.

Sisters-in-law, Leah, Rita and Nicole (well Nic will officially be my S-I-L by about 4.30pm this coming Saturday), Ann (my sage mum-in-law from Chester, UK) and all of the aunties and cousins (& cousin Col and Aunty Ros from Gruyere) over there. Special mention also to my wonderful nieces... Lucia, Sasha, Ruth and Tierney - young women now or some time soon.

Hilda Jennings, my Nana (RIP) and Grandma (RIP) - my brother Greg (the one who is getting married this weekend) wrote a beautiful blogpost that captures what Grandma meant to us all.

My NSAA friends and colleagues inspiring women doing good work - De, Tania (is writing a blog from a Mum's perspective called 'Surviving Year 12') Taruni, Phillipa, Gillian, Ailsa, Yvonne, Helen Mac, Melina and The Mighty Farrug' (inspiration). Former school teaching car pooling buddies Lizzie and the Harvenator and also Cate, the hardest working person I know, and wise mentor to boot.

Then of course there are all the locals - Robyn, Rosie, Caroline, Clare, Sandra, Pauline, Heidi, Miki, Leeanne, 'LGSpencer', Marnstorming and Moi (have a browse around Moira's CD, One Step Forward - there are songs here so pertinent to this day... she won an award at Port Fairy for Why Not Let a Mother and my favourite Moi song is Until You're Old, a poignant tribute to her mum).

Valerie, Kalindi (hey kids look for the carefully placed affirmation cards from your teacher on your 'vision posters', displayed in your extraordinarily 'finessed' classroom), Christine, Bonnie, Haidee and Sue who helped at the Silkwood School Mother-Son night and Bella, Oceana and Jess who were outstanding panelists at the Father-Daughter night.

Celia Lashlie - Champion delighter in the good news there is to tell about boys. Celia's other strong passion is in support of incarcerated women. One of the best speakers I have ever heard.

Another Celia, Nardis and Julie (love your Compassionate Flow blog Jules) - all have reconnected in recent times. It has been great to be back in touch.

Aunty Joy Murphy-Wandin - a lady who has worked tirelessly, as a bridge between indigenous and non-indigenous Australia. Probably has done more 'welcome to country' ceremonies than anyone. Massive Saints fan.

Sarah Kay - you saw her above in the clip. I love the story about the girl in the hoodie.

Mem Fox - thanks to you and Julie Vivas for Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partidge, my favourite all time picture book.

Leslie Cannold and Cecily (@happychatter) - last year I watched Leslie and Cecily engage in a Twitter debate on the Chaplaincy Funding issue. Different points of view - treated each other with respect. With no wish to be patronising, not a bad lesson in how to have an argument for us fellas.

A thought too for all women in the midst of a health battle on this IWD. Jacinta, we hold you in our heart every day.

And penultimately... here's a few faves from the Twitterverse @rosaliquidink , @peace_ , @SamJaneLane and @alihilltweet

Finally, I salute all the mums and mentors who have turned up at a Time & Space Mother-Son or Mother-Daughter session and if you put your name on an evaluation sheet in the last few years, you should find it here...

Adrianne, Alanah, Alex, Alexandra, Alicia, Alison, Alison, Alison, Alison, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Andrea, Andrea, Andrea, Ange, Angela, Angela, Angela, Angelina, Anita, Anita, Anita, Anita, Anita, Anita, Ann, Ann, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Anne, Annette, Annette, Annette, Anni, Annie, Annie, Antoinette, Barbara, Beatrice, Belinda, Belinda, Belinda, Bernadette, Bernadette, Breeda, Bridget, Bronwyn, Bronwyn, Byron, Carina, Carmel, Carmel, Carmel, Carmel, Carol, Carol, Caroline, Caroline, Caroline , Carolynne, Cate, Catherine, Catherine, Catherine, Catherine, Catherine, Cathy, Cathy, Cathy, Caz, Cecelia, Celeste, Celia, Cherie, Cheryl, Chris, Christine, Christine, Christine, Cindy, Cindy, Cindy, Claire, Claire, Claire, Clare, Clare, Claudia, Collette, Connie, Cristina, Dani, Daniel, Daniel, Daniella, Deb, Debbi, Debbie, Debbie, Deborah, Delia, Delwyn, Denise, Denise, Diane, Diane, Dianne, Dianne, Dianne, Dina, Dolores, Donna, Donna, Donna, Edwina, Eileen, Elaine, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elle, Elsie, Emily, Fali, Fanny, Felicia, Felicity, Fiona, Fiona, Fionna, Frances, Francesca, Frankie, Fulvia, G, Gabrielle, Gabrielle, Gabrielle, Gabrielle, Gen, George, Georgie, Geraldine, Geraldine, Gill, Gill, Gillian, Gina, Giulietta, Grace, Grace, Harshini, Hazel, Heidi, Helen, Helen, Helen, Helen, Helen, Helen, Helen, Helena, Huyen, Ida, Ingrid, Ivy, J, J, Jacinta, Jackie, Jacqui, Jacqui, Jacqui, Jacqui, Jai, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane, Janet, Janine, Janine, Janna, Jaqueline, Jayne, Jeannine, Jen, Jen, Jennie, Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny, Jill, Jo, Jo (regular correspondent on this blog and thanks for the prompt last year Jo - hey Bill, blog more!), Jo, Joanna, Joanne, Joanne, Joanne, Jodie, Jodie, Jody, Jose, Josh, Josie, Joy, Joyce, Judy, Julie, Julie, Julie, Julie, Julie, Julie, Julie, Julienne, June, Justine, Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen, Karine, Karmen, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kate, Kath, Kath, Kath, Kath, Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy, Kathy , Katie, Katrina, Katrina, Kelli, Kelly, Kelly, Kerri, Kerri, Kerrie, Kerrilyn, Kerry, Kerry, Kerry, Kim, Kim, Kim, Kim Ian, Kirsty, Kris, Kylie, Kylie, Kylie, Lauren, Leah, Leane, Leanne, Leanne, Leanne, Leanne , Leigh, Leonie, Leonie, Leonie, Liljana, Lillian, Lina, Linda, Linda, Linda, Linda, Linda, Linda, Lindy, Lindy, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Livia, Liz, Liz, Liz, Liz, Loretta, Loretta, Lori, Lou, Louisa, Louise, Lyn, Lynda, Lynette, Lynne, M, M.A., Madeline, Mandi, Mandy, Mandy, Mara, Mara, Maree, Maree, Maree, Maree, Maree, Margaret, Margaret , Margie, Margot, Maria, Maria, Maria, Marianne, Marianne, Marie, Marie, Marina, Marion, Marlies, Marly, Martine, Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary Rose, Maura, Meg, Meg, Megan, Megan, Megan, Melanie, Melissa, Melissa, Melissa, Mich, Michele, Michele, Michell, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Michelle, Miriam, Molly, Monica, Monica, Monique, Nadia, Naomi, Naomi, Narelle, Nat, Natalie, Natalie, Natasha, Natasha, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Nicole, Ornella, Pam, Pam, Pam, Pamela, Pamela, Pati, Patricia, Paula, Pauline, Pauline, Pauline , Pearlyn, Penny, Peta, Peta, Peta, Pina, Pina, Polly, Prue, Prue, Prue , Rachel, Rachelle, Rae, Rebecca, Rhonda, Rina, Rita, Robbie, Robyn, Robyn, Romaine, Roni, Rose, Rose, Rose, Rosemary, Ruth, Ruth, S., Sabine, Sally, Sally, Sally-Ann, Sam, Sam, Sandra, Sandra, Sandra, Sandra, Sandra, Sandra, Sandy, Sara, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Seb, Seema, Sephanie, Shane, Sharen, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon, Sharron, Shenna, Sherri, Sheryl, Shikha, Sibi, Siew Lin, Silvia, Sim, Simone, Simone, Simone, Siobhan, Siobhan, Sonia, Sonya, Sonya, Sonya, Sophia, Sue, Sue, Sue, Sue, Sue, Sue-Ellen, Surekha, Susan, Susan, Susie, Susie, Suzanne, Suzette, Sylvia, Talei, Tammy, Tammy, Tammy, Tania, Tania, Tania, Tania, Tanid, Tanya, Teresa, Teresa, Teresa, Teresa, Terri, Theresa, Theresa, Therese, Therese, Therese, Tiffany, Tina, Tina, Tina, Toni, Toni, Tonia, Tracey, Tracey, Tracey, Tracey, Tracey, Tricia, Trish, Trish, Trish, Trudy, Tuyet, Vanda, Veronic, Veronica, Vicki, Vilma, Vita, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Younga.

The usual custom for this blog is that I have got permission in advance from you if your name appears in it. As you can see, this is a different post today. I hope this is OK.

Thanks for reading and Happy International Women's Day (well it's evening now).

Bill Jennings
http://www.time-space.com.au/


PS - the first two women mentioned on the honours list are enjoying a celebratory glass of reasonably priced merlot on the couch as this post is published.