This morning I was taken back to the year 1997, when I sat glued to the television, hoping with all of my everything that a man named Stuart Diver would be rescued from beneath a mountain of rubble — the devastating result of a landslide at Thredbo: an Alpine Village in New South Wales, Australia.
The landslide at Thredbo broke the heart of just about every human in Australia, I’d go so far to say. Stuart was the sole survivor of the landslide that killed 18 people, including Stuart’s wife, Sally, who drowned in the rising icy waters beside him.
This post has no direct link to Stuart Diver and his shining human spirit, but it does have a few indirect links to (and hopefully a few reminders of) the magnificence of the human spirit. So I’m writing these words in honour of Stuart, and also in honour of every human who knows how beautiful it feels to shine through our dark times together.
Right now, twenty three years after Australia came together so beautifully for the good of one man, humanity finds ourselves in the united states of everyone hates each other. Just when we need each other the most.
What happened all those years ago, however tragic, was the most magical shining human thing I’d ever experienced. Aching life had brought us together. All of us. Every Australian, regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation, personality type: we all became one as we anxiously waited to see if our mate Stuart would pull through.
We cried real tears as we witnessed the beautiful bond between rescued and rescuer. We winced at the thought of Stuart’s journey beyond the rubble (which, tragically, only got worse before it got better when Stuart lost his second wife to breast cancer.) My point is: we ached. And we ached together.
We’re not those united humans, anymore. We’re about a gazillion aspects of our oneness, bursting into about a gazillion fragments of hate and pain and judgement. What might happen if we take a moment to remember just how beautiful we are, together? What might happen if we sat in our quiet for a few moments and just loved each other fully?
Currently, humanity is healing from about a billion years of collective shadow trauma, so the mature part of me wants to be kind to us as we vomit up all the nonsense we’ve shoved down for so long.
But there is another aspect of me who wants to shout at us for being dicks, and say: ‘Guys. We’re not getting it. We need to just stop and see the bigger picture.’
Sorry for the cranky pants.
I suppose I might post a soft and fluffy poem on here tomorrow.
I’m feeling such a tender ache within me, this morning. The aching quiet, I call it, this softness. This knowing of connection between humans and life, between humans and other humans.
Tenderness — more specifically, sitting within the depths of this beautiful, intense feeling with others — is something I’ve accidentally avoided in the past. I had no idea I’d been avoiding it until…oh, about ten minutes ago when I realised how beautiful it feels, and how much I’ve been craving it. And avoiding it.
I thought I wore my heart on my sleeve. I do wear my heart on my sleeve, so it’s easy to see how I’ve fooled myself. But when I really think of the years gone by, I think of that bright, bubbly sunshine I used to be…and I see that her sunshine was a wall. Of protection. A wall to keep the depth of intensity in. Or out.
I still get a little scared. I still want to run. But every time I run, I lose a beautiful, beautiful moment of human connection that could have changed two human lives for the better. Every serious moment I cover with humour, I suppose, is way of rejecting myself and the truth of what is asking to be.
Perhaps I’m over thinking it. But to me this is more of a feel, a feel that is running very deeply through me on this cloudy morning.
This tenderness is so lovely, far too lovely to live without.
I wrote this poem for the beautiful father of my children, today.
I wrote it on a white sheet of paper, using a fine tip pink pen and I left it beside a jar of soft pink roses on the kitchen counter. Then I snuck out of his house, with a smile, wondering what he might think when he discovered it. ☺️
I’m sharing this moment with you all because I believe beautiful moments are a gift to be cherished. I hope you do, too. ☺️
I also believe it’s important to share beautiful moments in the hopes of inspiring more beautiful moments in the world. And heaven knows we need that right now.
Years ago, quite by accident, and quite without me knowing why…I stopped crying after a lifetime of being a human river. I didn’t notice it happening, it just happened and there was nothing for me to do but keep living, wondering if this was the me I was meant to be all along.
I now know the lack of tears meant that I had lost myself. That I had been suppressing my emotions, either for the comfortability of those around me (to fit in) or just because the difficulties of life had closed my heart in order to keep me safe.
This morning, as I slushed around in that pile of dishes, I felt my wholeness again. For those of you who are new to my beautiful bloggy family, this reawakening of my spirit/senses began about two years ago, I’d say, and every so often I find myself reaching new milestones of truth, you might call them.
This morning delivered one of them, and every beautiful current of the river that once moved me was back, if only for a few moments. I’d just been told a story. A very sad one. A story of a man who had lost his wife and child in a car crash many, many years ago.
I cried those tears as though I was that man. I felt those tears as though I was that man. I ached for his pain. I cried for him.