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

Where did I come from?

Nowadays, whenever I visit my parents at the family home, mum will show me the progress they’ve made in “decluttering”, which is the term we're all using for getting the house ready to sell. A few months ago she gave me a box of books from my childhood collection. I simply added it to the pile of boxes at my place that I hadn’t sorted through yet after a particularly rushed move. When I came back to it, sure enough, there was that 80’s classic in soft cover: “Where did I come from?” This book was how we all learnt about “the facts of life”, and it boasted that this was achieved “without any nonsense and with illustrations”

No nonsense sex education from the 80s

As we each play our part in the process of determining which items from 45 years of a household should be kept and which ones should be passed on, there have been a couple of trips down memory lane. One particular day Dad asked me, over a well-earned tea break, whether I’d ever lived in this house. “Yes, I grew up here, actually," I replied, as matter-of-fact as I could manage, reflecting briefly on the two or so decades that had shaped my current life; the many arguments about his loud television blaring while I tried to get to sleep and the moments lying in that bed, looking out that window contemplating my place in this life. “In fact, the room that you sleep in was once my room” I offered. Dad was somewhat intrigued by this new information, and what followed was a casual discussion about where I used to have the bed, and how he was now utilising the space. 

Although I’d occupied all 3 “kids” bedrooms at different times, it is now generally understood that the upstairs room was mine, the one closest to the bathroom was my brother’s and the front room, which had a window onto the front porch, was my sister’s. When they were babies, the twins had their matching cots in the front room, and I can remember them talking to one another across the room in their unique dialect of baby babble. They ended up chewing the white paint off their cot rails to reveal a pale, mid century green below. At that time, I was in the room nearest the bathroom, and the busy floral carpet that my brother later pulled up in favour of floorboards offered an opportunity to skip and dance from one orangey-brown flower to the next on the short trip to the toilet.

The other day mum handed me several copies of the ultrasound images from when she was pregnant, dated May 1976. Scientific proof, as it were, that I wasn’t adopted. The facts of life, without any nonsense and with illustrations. Mum’s sister, who had also harboured a belief that she’d been adopted, recently did a DNA test, and had to confront the reality that, like me, any feelings of being misunderstood or on the edges of belonging could not be put down to genetics. 

Proof of life

Another time, mum pulled out her journal from when I was 18 months old. In amongst carefully documented details about meal times, delight in nature, visits to grandparents, nappy changing antics and surprising greeting rituals we learn of some troubling behaviour. Our young heroine had developed a tendency, of late, to pull the next door neighbour’s hair and hit children at playgroup. Unprovoked, mind you. With these snippets I am gifted an intimate insight into the wonder and frustrations of a new mother. 

As I tried to adopt an attitude of curiosity about why an 18 month old was pulling other children’s hair, a rage well known to women in the Autumn of their lives begins to take hold, and I have empathy for that little girl. Rage or aggression can appear unprovoked, but usually there's a reason, or a thousand tiny reasons that build up. Almost fifty years later, there is still a disapproval of "strong emotions" in little girls, and an expectation that women, and perhaps particularly eldest daughters, don't have needs of our own. But rage isn't necessarily a bad thing. When channelled with care and purpose, it is the mother of powerful social change. I recently learnt that my grandmother, a little older than I am now and having realised that she couldn't stay silent any longer, had a quiet (but firm) word with Fred Nile about his stance on abortion. 

On another visit, while making space for a few of my clothes in my brother's wardrobe, I found a photo of my siblings and me in a 3-way embrace. They say that the sibling relationship is the most important and longstanding, because they have known us throughout all our phases of life. When mum’s uncle died a few years ago, his sister, the last remaining sibling, grieved particularly because he’d “left her all alone”. 

Siblings

On yet another occasion, mum presented me with a written exchange with the tooth fairy, from some 40 years ago. They say “Give me the child at 7 and I'll show you the adult”. In a suitably miniature font, the human protagonist has a couple of questions for her winged correspondents. She was concerned that the tooth fairies hadn't taken the tooth, which was their rightful reward in exchange for a gold coin. Furthermore, she wanted to get to know where these little creatures lived and what their names were. Integrity in business affairs and building meaningful relationships were as important back then as they are now. 

Miniature correspondence

As the trip down memory lane inevitably comes to a close, and the house mum and dad called home for almost half a century is gradually emptied of its “clutter”, the place is beginning to feel more and more spacious. And with spaciousness, it's possible to see things more clearly. I can embrace the aggressive toddler, the inquisitive child, the frustrated teen and the loving big sister as all true parts of a whole person. So, where did I come from? I believe we all come from ourselves. We are shaped by genetics and our environment but the essence of who we uniquely are is always there within us.

The Way It Is

There is a thread you follow. 

It goes among things that change. 

But it doesn't change.

People wonder about what things you are pursuing. 

You have to explain about the thread.

But it is hard for others to see. 

While you hold it you can't get lost.

Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die; and you suffer and grow old.

Nothing you do can stop time's unfolding. 

You don't ever let go of the thread.

William Stafford

Surrender

This year Dad made the decision to fly to Hobart for Christmas. The plan was for me to travel with him on the way down, and mum to join us on the way back. After a bit of back and forth about how to best handle the logistics of the journey, I ended up driving to Gordon, spending a couple of hours with Dad having lunch, checking the letterbox and putting final touches to his suitcase before I drove us back to my place and then organised an uber to the airport. 

Throughout the various journeys, Dad pointed out interesting landmarks or points of curiosity. We passed more than one Bunnings, a diverse array of street art and quite a range of petrol prices. 

All went smoothly until we went through security with our carry-on-only bags. We wondered if his hip, or belt, or like last time a small crumpled piece of fishermans friend wrapper, would set off the alarm. But, happily, Dad went through with ease. However, we were pulled over and the security staff lifted from my handbag my house keys complete with the engraved swiss army knife that I’ve had for almost 20 years. 

“You could check it in”, the kind woman on the other side of the bench said “or you could surrender it”. I looked at Dad, not bearing to make him trudge back out to the check-in counter with me, and then bear witness to the expense of checking in a very small item when no checked bag had been booked or alternatively be an accomplice in me hiding it in a pot plant, a trick that had worked about 15 years ago. 

So, reluctantly I surrendered the pocket knife and Dad and I continued with our relatively incident-free journey. Later, Dad asked me if I felt sad about losing the knife, and I honestly replied that I felt okay. I had accepted it. As the week continued, I kept going back to the word surrender. Usually associated with battles, I couldn’t help thinking that it was a strange word to use in relation to a small pocket knife, and yet it was fitting for broader questions of letting go. 

In recent battles of an interpersonal nature, I’ve struggled to find the balance between backing myself and seeing the other person’s perspective. When do I choose to go into battle on behalf of myself or others who have less power, and set clear boundaries and expectations of behaviour I will not accept? And when do I choose to surrender for the sake of harmony, acknowledging my part in how things might have escalated? 

There are insights from the arts and spirituality. The serenity prayer reminds us to know what we can change and what we can't. The song "the gambler" talks about knowing when to let go, how to make the most of the hand you're dealt and choosing to be careful with your vulnerability. 

There have been several moments, both during the Christmas trip and before, when Dad has modelled surrender to me. On the physical front, he has surrendered his license and car, and happily lets other people drive him places, graciously saying “thank you” when they help him with his seatbelt. During the Christmas trip he wanted to know in advance what will be happening, but other than that tended to go with the flow, surrendering control over decision making to others. 

But perhaps the most important lesson he is teaching me is a deeper surrender. As I watched him gazing out the airplane window, intrigued with how things look from above and pointing out interesting cloud formations and the changing landscape, I realised with a lump in my throat that he is savouring all of these experiences. I remember his reply when I asked how he feels about his diagnosis. He can’t do anything about it, he acknowledged with a shrug, so may as well accept it. Surrender again.

My journey with surrender is slightly different to Dad’s, and yet there are similarities. For me, it’s about letting go of certain outcomes, and choosing to live with some decisions even when I don’t fully agree with them. It’s also about accepting that none of us can control the way people see us. Let them misunderstand me if they want to. I know who I am and what I stand for. 

And, most importantly, the past couple of years have been a gift for me. My relationship with my father is stronger than ever, and we've shared some hilarious, beautiful, and poignant moments together. I know he has appreciated this time as well. If he’s taken away sooner than I’d like, he will teach me how to surrender to that too, and I will remember him fondly as he wanted me to do.