Human kind

Preparing the family home for sale was a mammoth task. And it really did take a village to get the job done. With assistance from generous neighbours and friends, there had been regular council clean-up piles on both sides of the street, countless trips to local op shops, and a couple of special drop offs to the Lifeline book fair and a local church flea market. Several neighbours came around to help dismantle the incredibly heavy, wall to wall entertainment unit from upstairs. And it was a group effort to manoeuvre the 1920's wardrobe from the front bedroom out onto the street. One of our grandfather’s former clock buddies offered to sell several clocks for us without charging a commission. My sister organised informal garage sales under the carport where neighbours popped in for a browse and a chat and left with their pockets full of Dad’s old scissors and pens, and car boots packed with tools and plants and pieces of furniture that the Salvos didn’t want. Some sent photos of a pot plant or garden statue or revamped desk in its new home. It felt fitting that the couple from across the road, who had been incredibly helpful, both with Dad and throughout the 'decluttering' process, happily walked away with my brother's handmade garden bench seat, giving it continued life.

The antiques dealer recommended by our real estate agent drove up from Eden to look at the piano, and ended up agreeing to take several pieces of furniture, some old doilies and dresses and a couple of pieces of our Great Uncle Ces’s artwork as well. Steve* was quite a character, pushing aside silvery dreadlocks and hoisting up his trousers as he inspected our wares and explained his unique approach to long distance driving. Steve took a long stroll in the garden with mum over a cup of tea and 'tut tutted' in a very supportive way when she complained about how the new paint job had stripped the house of its character. He then enlisted my siblings in a morning of heavy lifting in order to squeeze everything into his truck. When he finally left, more than a week after his first visit, he surprised mum with a goodbye kiss on the cheek. Overall there had been some lovely interactions with beautiful people throughout this very difficult process. 

Yet, at the 11th hour, only a couple of days before settlement, we received an intimidating letter of demand from the buyer’s solicitor, accusing us of chopping down a tree during the settlement period without their consent. This wasn’t the case at all. A large gum tree had fallen down in a storm about 6 months earlier, and mum had brought someone in to chop up the fallen tree into smaller pieces. The resulting logs were then carefully positioned alongside walking paths in mum's beloved rainforest at the back of the garden. Various stumps became seats, or little tables for potted plants. The larger trunk was still there, with its upended roots blending into 6 months of overgrowth. It had been visible exactly like that throughout the marketing campaign for the sale of the house and we had photos to prove it. Yet, the replies came back in legal jargon as determined as ever. We’d chopped down the gum tree without their consent and would have to remove the entire tree's remains within 24 hours or they’d withhold part of the final price. 

I was shocked and angry. ‘How could they be so cruel?’ I asked mum’s solicitor, who calmly guided the process with his signature pragmatism until the buyer's solicitor finally backed off, and the sale went through with a mere moment to spare. But the whole incident left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Mum's beloved garden

This wasn’t my first experience of people behaving badly. When others have behaved in ways that I experience as disingenuous, unreasonable, manipulative or lacking in empathy I feel incredibly angry. Whether it’s on the global political stage, in workplaces, or in community groups, I’ve seen how those with power can wield that power over others, how the truth can be twisted to serve a particular purpose, and how individual interests can override the greater good. 

When the property dispute happened, I admitted on social media that I felt ill-equipped to deal with human cruelty. As a Quaker, I was raised amongst hippies and activists, people who courageously spoke truth to power and worked tirelessly for social justice. I was also encouraged to "Walk cheerfully over the earth, answering that of God in everyone". When faced with blatant cruelty and injustice, I find it challenging to see the good in those who actively cause harm to others. I asked the hive mind how I can stay true to the peaceful values of my upbringing while still channelling my rage into a focused, productive fight for justice.

It turned out that people had lots to say on the subject. Some reflected that Quakers, because of our focus on seeing the good in others, can struggle with holding people accountable, setting boundaries and resolving conflict in a healthy way. Others found comfort in the laws and policies that govern human behaviour. Some felt compassion for tyrants and bullies. Others reflected that anger is a good thing if channelled towards positive social change. After all, it is what’s led to progress on women’s liberation, racial justice and other civil rights. And then a couple of friends admonished me privately for taking things so personally. Other people are simply doing business in the way that they know works for them. If I wasn’t so sensitive, it wouldn’t bother me so much.

And there is some truth to this last assertion. I comfortably identify as a highly sensitive person. (Which is different to being “too sensitive”, by the way.) An article about Why Emotionally Intelligent People Struggle Most in Toxic Workplaces particularly resonated with me. The author states that “the people who feel things most deeply are the ones most easily broken by a toxic environment. Not the most brittle. Not the least capable. The most attuned”. Perhaps it’s because of my sensitivity, which is both a strength and a vulnerability, that I notice cruelty and injustice and want to do all I can to overcome it. But, in unhealthy environments, the article says, the efforts of emotionally intelligent people to improve relationships, have honest conversations and name what isn’t working often go unrewarded and are sometimes brutally punished. 

I also think I became a bit too focussed on cruelty, and started seeing it everywhere. At just the right time, I remembered about a book that a friend gave me called “Human kind”. This book explains that in so much of literature, film and the media there is a deeply rooted belief that humans are by nature selfish, cruel and unkind. That in times of disaster it's every person for themself. Think 'Lord of the Flies', 'Titanic' (the movie), and Hurricane Katrina.

Yet, this book explores actual evidence from history that tells a different story. Humans, it turns out, are overwhelmingly willing to die for strangers, they band together in times of adversity, and are generally decent. Survivors of the twin towers' collapse in New York shared later that people were incredibly generous towards one another during that catastrophe, even insisting that strangers go ahead of them down the fire stairs, knowing that such kindness could cost them their own life. During WW2, leaders of both England and Germany assumed that civilisation would quickly collapse following the bombing of a major city. Yet, ordinary people in both countries continued with their everyday lives, demonstrating humour, resilience and courage. And after the dust settled in New Orleans, it turned out that the extent of looting, rape and murder was nowhere near what the media had implied. Instead researchers found that the overwhelming majority of activity during the aftermath of the hurricane was pro-social in nature.  

And there is the story of Celine Cremer, a Belgian hiker who went missing in Tasmania. People came over from several other states of Australia and even from overseas, without knowing this person, to participate in the search. Celine’s mother gave an emotional thank you speech at the end of the search. The idea that complete strangers would do this for her family gave her immense comfort and hope about humanity. Perhaps, the book suggests, those with power, whose intentions are questionable, assume that everyone else is the same. In reality, the vast majority of us behave in ways that are helpful, community-oriented and kind. 

Back to the question of walking cheerfully over the earth answering that of God in others. How do I do this with integrity when there’s been significant hurt or injustice? I turned to those more enlightened than me for answers. The Desiderata poem which I have displayed in my hallway offers balanced advice, saying "As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all people". I hold onto that idea of 'without surrender'. And when I recently watched Emily Provance’s 2025 Swarthmore Lecture on "A Testimony of Community", one of the minutes she shares at the end hints at how to find that balance: “How we respond to provocation is how we demonstrate Christ’s way”.  Theologian Walter Wink outlines how "Christ’s way" of responding to provocation is, in fact, deeply radical. Rejecting the paths of passive submission and violent retaliation, Jesus suggests a third way of nonviolent resistance. This approach demands immense moral courage and creativity to assert one's humanity without resorting to the violence of one's opponent.

Well, the past six months has been a lesson in leaning in to that challenge. I’ve gravitated towards teams and community groups where empathy, honesty, integrity and courage are valued and lived out. This has restored my faith in “human kind”, and I feel a strength, a calm, and a sense of emotional safety return. And in times of provocation, so to speak, I have tried to draw on the strength gained from these positive experiences to set and maintain boundaries, participate in creative, non-violent actions to oppose structural violence, and respectfully cut ties when the relationship is not likely to improve. And I've found that the bitterness that I felt so strongly at the time of the house sale has gradually been replaced with a degree of compassion. We left the family home for the last time with a strong sense of community that had been built over several decades, and of being held by a force greater than ourselves. I hope that the new owners also experience the joy and fulfilment that comes with being part of communities of human kind-ness.  

The seat my brother made

*name changed

The first day

During the recent process of packing up the family home, mum found a detailed drawing I did for her of my 5th birthday party, which was at the circus. She’d kept the childish sketch, incorporating a colourful clown holding a bunch of balloons, an array of animals, fun fair stalls and possibly a robot, for 45 years. Mum hadn’t been there herself, because she was 7 months pregnant with the twins at the time and under strict instructions to stay in bed. So Dad was my responsible adult. I was allowed to take two friends, presumably because three was the number of small children that was manageable for Dad at that time.

My first day of school was another milestone that Dad and I navigated together. There’s a cassette tape somewhere of him asking me how I felt about this auspicious event. “I feel joyful all over” was my enthusiastic reply. Sadly we never found any photos of me in my school uniform on that day, the type of image that every parent nowadays shares on social media at this important juncture. That step in the process must have been forgotten amongst the hustle and bustle of getting ready and leaving the house. I don’t remember much else about the first day, except that I didn’t cry when we said goodbye. I would tell people this fact very proudly, and often wondered whether not having my primary carer there had made me braver somehow. Harry*, from down the road, did cry. I remember that. Mum told me recently that he cried a lot, that boy, but is now a successful executive or something. 

And so it felt important to me that I was there for Dad’s first day in residential care. We visited 'the village' the day before Dad was due to move in officially, with the plan being that mum and I would set up his room with a few familiar things ahead of time. Just as we were getting out of the car, Dad asked if he could come with us. Nobody could think of a reason why he shouldn’t, and so the three of us signed in at reception, did a RAT test, and headed across ‘the village’ to his assigned room. Dad was pleased to discover that his ensuite was so close to his bed, and he didn’t particularly mind the view of the carpark. Having seen the place for himself, he was happy to go off with Jess while mum and I put clothes in the wardrobe, draped one of mum’s handmade quilts on the bed and placed a few photos and pictures up on the wall. 

The next day, which was the official moving-in day, was a bit more daunting and emotional. When I arrived at mum’s two bedroom townhouse where the two of them had been staying, Dad was sitting in an arm chair all dressed and ready to go, with his hat, walking stick and shoes already on. 

“How are you feeling about the move?” I asked, sliding into another of mum’s arm chairs. 

“I expect it will probably hit me soon enough,” he replied, not nearly as joyful as I had been all those years before. 

As Mum and Tom busied themselves with addressing some kind of bank issue, I suggested a walk and Dad happily agreed. Knowing that it was his last walk of freedom, I felt sad, nostalgic and unsure what to say. So I pointed out what I thought were interesting landmarks, such as a school with a swing providing a view of the river, and a garden with an extraordinary collection of gnomes out the front. I was trying not to be too positive about it all. Dad was mostly silent in response to my babble, with the odd "hmm" or "oh, so it is" added in politely. As we neared the curved end of the cul-de-sac, a car pulled up, and parked hurriedly, with its boot quite a distance from the curb. The driver’s door opened, and a small dog leapt out, quickly followed by a harried-looking woman. 

“Roger” she yelled, “come and put your lead on.” I saw that the dog was wearing one of those cones over its face. “He doesn’t like going to the vet” she said to us, by way of explanation. Sure enough, there at the head of the cul-de-sac was a veterinary clinic, a landmark I had failed to notice earlier.

“She’s parked very badly” Dad said to me, as soon as she was out of earshot. 

One of the nice things about 'the village' is that each resident has a small glass cabinet outside their room, which can be filled with mementos or items that represent the person. Mum and I had put several Commonwealth Bank items including Dad’s old business cards on the middle shelf of his cabinet. On the top shelf were photos of Dad’s parents, Wilbur and Flo, and on the bottom shelf we’d just put a personalised mug decorated with photos of the family. The bottom shelf could be filled properly later. As Dad approached his new room on that first day, he glanced at the cabinet. 

“That’s my parents” he noted, and my eyes welled up with tears.

As we were standing around in Dad’s new room all inspecting the window mechanism, the capacity of the wardrobe and the proximity of the bathroom, I noticed that our small group had increased ever so slightly in size. One of Dad’s new housemates was amongst us, nodding along earnestly as we commented on the features of his new room. And there on her shoulder was my handbag. I have to admit that I panicked and completely forgot anything I had read about how to communicate with people living with dementia. 

“That’s my bag!” I exclaimed loudly. Hannah* simply smiled warmly and shared a few thoughts in German. Luckily, one of the staff came to my rescue, and skilfully distracted Hannah by talking in soft tones about something else, then calmly suggested that since we were heading out soon, we’d be needing the handbag for now. Hannah graciously handed it over, and allowed herself to be steered back to the living room, still smiling warmly. 

Day 1 also involved meeting some of the staff, and it was in these interactions that the matter of the 'extras' kept popping up. Mum had been sent several informational documents about 'life at the village' and one had detailed the basic package, and then itemised the optional extras. We needed to decide whether we wanted all of the extras for an extra $31 per day, or just a few of them for the individual rates indicated. Extras ranged from household items like the King Single bed and smart TV with Wifi, to monthly outings, coffees in the café and a weekly ice cream. They didn’t do a very good job of promoting the outings, because on further enquiry it turned out that the location wasn’t revealed until just before, and residents didn’t actually leave the bus! Given that we intended to take Dad out from time to time and he’d be able to leave the car, we didn’t see the need to pay for additional outings. But Jess put forward a strong case for the weekly coffee club and ice creams. 

“You don’t want Dad being the only person not allowed to have ice cream, do you?” she implored, and mum begrudgingly relented. When Mum asked about what would happen if we chose not to go with the King Single bed, Erika*, the intake coordinator, thought for a moment and then said that this had never come up before. 

“I mean, the bed is already there in the room”, Mum said, exasperated, and Erika said she’d have to get back to us on that. 

“The outings and the King Single beds are what makes the village the village” Erika assured us. 

“Then why aren’t they part of the basic package?” I thought, but just glared at her instead. 

“What a lovely smile you have” mum exclaimed to one of Dad’s housemates when we arrived with Dad. Sue* appeared a bit taken aback at first by such attention from a stranger, but quickly became comfortable with our attempts at conversation. Later on, I asked Sue if she was going to the afternoon activities being held in the community centre. 

“Oh, we just don’t have time for all these activities, dear” she gushed “we’re terribly busy as it is, what with all our blah de blah blahs and our wooty woots”. Sue’s explanation then continued as a stream of gibberish, accompanied by flamboyant hand gestures and interspersed with recognisable phrases that normally punctuate an animated conversation between friends such as “it’s just outrageous” and “she’s got no idea” and “darling, what lovely skin you have!”. When Sue’s friend visited, we learnt that she had been a theatre performer in her younger years. 

Dad and me on a walk in the 'village'

I asked Dad a few days later how he was going with his housemates. 

“I just ignore them” Dad told me, and sure enough when Sue tried to engage him in seemingly nonsensical conversation he just turned away. When she approached him with a more pointed question, he replied quite firmly with “I’m sorry, I don’t understand”. She eventually gave up. 

“Just go along with it, John” urged mum from the other end of the dining table. 

“Will I end up like that?” Dad asked me during a subsequent walk around the village. 

“Well”, I reflected, “you’ll probably have your own particular quirks and eccentricities.” And Dad seemed okay with that. 

Dad’s first day happened to be 'Coffee club' day, and so we all headed over to the café to join in the fun. The café is in the centre of the 'village', a 2 minute walk (at Dad's pace) from his house, and is right near the hair salon and the community centre. The ‘village’ had been designed to mirror a normal village, but without cars or the risk of getting lost. Jason*, the barista, knows all of the residents by name, and, more importantly, their coffee orders. Residents gradually arrived, some accompanied by staff, some with visitors, and some wandered in with other residents. Several staff were there greeting residents and assisting people to find a spot to sit. The atmosphere was warm, up-beat, and everyone seemed happy. This, I thought, is what makes the village the village. Not the size of the beds or the stupid, boring bus outings. 

By 4pm, the coffee club was wrapping up, and residents were heading back to their houses. Tom’s family had joined us and then gone home and the rest of us were pretty tired. I offered to stay with Dad so that Jess and Mum could go home and rest. He and I sat in relatively companionable silence at his dining table for a while, before I suggested a walk. I’ve realised that a walk is a good way to distract both of us from any feelings of frustration or sadness. So we made our way around the four cul-de-sacs of the 'village' and were back in plenty of time for dinner. Dad elected to eat his dinner in his room that first evening, and, since we had set up the TV and Netflix earlier in the day, we turned the TV on and settled (he in his armchair and me on the edge of his bed) into an episode of 'Long Lost Families'. Dad quite likes this show, as my older brother Andrew, who was adopted out at birth, is frequently at the forefront of Dad’s mind. 

‘Long Lost Families’ finished and we were well into ‘Antiques Roadshow’ when Dad’s dinner arrived. Once he had eaten, I thought it was probably time for me to say goodbye. 

“Thank you for staying with me” Dad said quietly, and I felt an enormous surge of grief, guilt and angst. I wondered if he’d be okay on his own during his first night, and whether he was going to be happy there longer term. What must have been going through his mind as he climbed into his new bed (a King Single, don't forget) for the first time? 

Saying goodbye on the first day of kindy is always hardest on the parents, people have said. Having never had children of my own, I only had this day with Dad to compare with my own first day of school. As I did the sign out process at reception and organised my transport back to mum’s, the tears began to fall. But by the time my ride arrived, I’d pulled myself together. After all, I had to be brave for mum, who again was waiting for me back at home, but not bed bound this time at least. And I wondered how Dad had felt after saying goodbye to me at the kindergarten classroom all those years before. 

*names changed