Launch today – and an article in the UCA enews

Today is a big day – the launch of Soulstice.
Any excuse for a party, I say. All is set for a happy celebration. I am humbled and delighted that so many people want to come. If you didn’t see an invitation – you’re very welcome! It is at 4.30 pm at St Andrew’s Medical Centre (3rd floor), on the corner of Hutt Street and South Terrace Adelaide – just down from St Andrew’s Hospital.

For a long time the book was just another “bucket list before retirement” thing. Finally, I think I can begin to take pleasure in the accomplishment.

The New Times team have published an article about the book and why I wrote it. It can be found at

http://sa.uca.org.au/new-times/soulstice-sharonne-price

Another journey begins today. On with the next book – this one will be about The Four Fears beginning with Julian of Norwich’s insights. I don’t seem to be able to get away from sets of four!

Memo from America – Spring in the labyrinth

Notes from journal three weeks ago.
I decided to walk the labyrinth at Scarritt-Bennett College today. It’s part of a beautiful garden that separates the Hogwarts-looking buildings of an old respectable institution. It was an overcast morning and the labyrinth has been a bit neglected of late, it’s ground uneven and the pathway bricks overgrown with spring grasses. It was quite a challenge to work out whether I was on the specified track or not, and where the barriers that indicate “Go that other way!” were. I’m sure my pathway was not the accurate, careful plan set out in the labyrinth design, with its turning this way and that, seeming to go outwards when one wanted to go inwards, and so on. I carried with me a slight irritation – even the labyrinth wasn’t going to be predictably straight forward today. That was my first lesson. Despite not being able to just contemplate about other things whilst picking my way through the puzzle, I realised that the actual pathway didn’t matter much. I was out in the crisp cool of a northern hemisphere morning, with rain threatening but I really had not a care in the world. I had to let go of the “right path” idea. Then I began to notice the little flowers that were entangled with the weeds. Indeed, some of those I thought most beautiful were probably weeds to a Nashville native. They were testaments to spring – simple, uncultivated, spontaneous, short-lived. They were my second lesson – life produces the unexpected and beautiful. I confess to feeling a little silly as I carefully picked weeds to take with me as a memory of the day’s treasure. It began to drizzle so I set out for my room, passing by a tree that had not even begun to sprout the leaves of spring. Clinging on tight were a few dried up leaves that belonged to last summer. They had not given way with the chills of last autumn. Despite surviving the winter, they would soon be replaced by the lush of new green.
It made me think about retirement. Holding on is not always pretty. Best make way for the new and the fresh.
A walk in the labyrinth always brings a blessing.
Sharonne

Memo from America – Mars and beyond

I met Ken the other day. We were at the Kennedy Space centre near Cape Canaveral at the Exploring Mars exhibit. With energy and conviction, supported by the chorus of scientists on the screen behind him, he said to the young people gathered there, “Space exploration isn’t just about pushing boundaries. It fulfils a deep need to understand our world and to explore the nature and the meaning of human life.” I couldn’t have said it better myself. He went on, “It’s going to take creative thinkers and problem-solvers like you to help us on this incredible journey through space … We don’t know what the universe is made of…We don’t know what the limits of the universe are. It’s not all figured out. It’s never all figured out …We really only learn by going out there and exploring the boundaries.” His monologue was inspiring, and all eyes were glued to him and the scientists who joined him. The questions kept coming. “What happened to Mars? Could it happen here on earth? Could you bring Mars back to life? Would we be learning what our eventual future may be?” Then the climax – “If you want to be part of something big – I mean really big – you could take a risk and, like primitive man, walk out of the cave and over the hill into a whole new world of discovery. The first person to live on Mars might be in our audience today! You are the ones who are going to lead us to new frontiers and beyond, because you are tomorrow’s explorers.”
That night as we drove into Orlando, (the home of Disneyworld and all sorts of other theme parks for the entertainment of the young and the not-so-young), the illuminated billboards featured Harry Potter, wand in hand, stretching out into a starry universe. The caption read, “Courage is Universal”. It was an ad for Universal Studios.
My first reaction was – “You think that’s Courage? I’ll show you real Courage!” (as in Ken’s monologue at the Space Centre). I might be slow, but eventually I realised that this is how our children practise how to be brave, experience the emotions of discovery and heroism, learn about the demands on character and ethics, sample the choices that we all have to make in life, and cycle through the repeated challenges that life will throw at them. So, long live Harry Potter and his wand! Courage is indeed universal.
Sharonne

Memo from America – Jimmy Carter

It seems such a long time ago, but it’s less than four weeks since Ian and I spent a thoughtful couple of hours exploring the Jimmy Carter Museum in Atlanta Georgia. We like these places. Some might think we’re addicted to American politics – and perhaps we are – but presidential libraries have a way of bringing long-past events back with vivid immediacy. Jimmy Carter was really a Washington outsider – a long shot for election really, but a trusted rural Christian American whose values could restore the American image of itself – wholesome, just, ethical, honest and personable. The saga with Richard Nixon had left deep scars. Once elected, he set about being The President of The United States, and unlike the current incumbent, did not spend much time thinking about whether he’d be re-elected. He never had his eyes on that particular prize.
Two things stood out for me.
(1)The Middle East conversations at Camp David with Sadat and Begin. It was extraordinary that Carter managed to keep the parties “at the table”. They were so very hostile to each other and negotiations had deteriorated to a sort of shuttle diplomacy between cabins at Camp David. As a mediator, I’ve been very reluctant to use personal power to keep people in the process, but Carter risked all that. After different parties had stormed off and were packing their bags to go home, Carter sat with each leader in a reflective frame of mind. He went in to Sadat with a picture of Sadat’s family in his hands. He had written the name of every child and grandchild on that photo. Carter said, “If you walk away, what will we be leaving our grandchildren that we love so much? Our common ground – you, me, and Begin – is that our grandchildren need us to stick at it.” Sadat unpacked his bags.
To Begin, he said, “If you pack up and go home I will take it as an affront to our friendship which we both value highly, and that you have reneged on your promises not to pull out”. Begin stayed. When the chips are down, relationship is EVERYTHING! They worked on and signed the peace treaty. Getting them to enact it was another challenge. Perhaps us mediators have to recognise that on very specific occasions, we have to eat every sandwich in the lunchbox!
(2) I had not remembered that the very painful negotiations around the freeing of the hostages in Iran came to a positive conclusion on the very day of the inauguration of Ronald Reagan, who had defeated an embattled Carter at the polls. It was said that the Carter administration had two White Houses – the one engaged with government, and the one that conducted the negotiations for the release of the hostages without war or bloodshed. Jimmy Carter was able to greet the hostages as they came off the plane that day. Every single hostage was safe. He said, “This is the happiest day of my life!” On the day that might have been the most painful of days, Carter was able to celebrate the success of his deeply held values and cherish the outcome for the individuals for whom he had fought so hard. This is a man I could follow.
So – back to the Museum. Here there were photos of the meetings with faces wrinkled with worry and heads in hands as the negotiations inched along. It took me back to the large photos in the John F Kennedy Presidential Library of both JFK and Attorney-General Bobby Kennedy with their heads in their hands as they worked through the Bay of Pigs crisis. I recalled the agonies of diplomacy when walking so close to a catastrophe for the nation and for the world,
and I began to wonder how the new President will handle such delicate challenges. Bluster and blank assurances just won’t cut it. And now, three weeks later, Donald Trump is on the sharp end of diplomatic negotiations. Hold on, everybody!

Carried away

There once was a woman who lived on a rugged hillside near to a freshwater spring. She drank from it often, and savoured every drop of the life-giving water.
She made many journeys to the top of the mountain where the Holy of Holies dwelled, but always felt compelled to return to her home on the hillside.
She could not help noticing the many travellers who, ragged and footsore, bloodied and exhausted, passed by her door on their search for the Holy of Holies. They clambered over the rocks and stones, tripped over the sink-holes and pot holes and staggered from foothold to foothold.
The woman was filled with a deep compassion.
She began to bandage wounds and encourage the pilgrims, offering them bowls of water from the well, and showing them the simpler paths. She even walked some of the way with them.
More and more pilgrims came, and more and more of them seemed to need spring water and the woman’s tenderness.
She grew very weary as she too clambered over the rocks and stones to meet and tend to them. She became so busy day after day, that she drank form the spring less and less – after all, the precious water must be taken to others.
She was too busy to notice that day by day she was shrinking. Gradually the journeys became tougher and it was harder and harder to carry the bowls of water and the bandages. As she shrank, the pilgrims seemed to grow bigger and bigger, and their needs harder and harder to meet. Her voice was fading too. Before long her tiny body could only drag small offerings small distances.
Then, one day she fell.
There was a pot-hole too deep and wide, and she toppled, rather like Alice in Wonderland, to a place of unknown depths. It was dark and cold – a bleak underground cavern. She called out, but her voice was faint and no-one came.
She did not know how long she lay there – hours, days, weeks or months. She just knew that she was alone and afraid. She thought she would die.
Then she heard a familiar sound. It was the trickle of water. “Oh no!” she thought. “I will drown! This hillside is a catacomb of waterways and caves. I shall have to hold on!”
So she held on, and the trickle became a thunderous stream. Eventually she could hold on no longer and she was carried away in the whitewater. She gulped mouthful after mouthful and, as she did, she grew strangely stronger. When the gushing stopped, she found herself being lifted gently, gently on a stilling tide – up, up towards the light.
Before long, she was deposited on the hillside – laid flat to dry off in the sun.
© Sharonne Price

The retreat garden

I sat in the retreat garden, bored and weary with the effort of “reflecting”, and looked at the bird bath. Nice touch, I thought, but no earthly use. Not enough birds around here for it to be worthwhile.
No sooner had the thought come and gone, when a plump magpie dropped in. With steady step she moved to the bowl, and hopped up to perch on its rim. She turned and took me in her gaze, then with an unselfconscious fluff of her feathers, she stooped down for the cool water. She raised her head up high to let the water trickle down her throat. This she repeated four or five times, before gracefully taking the short flight to an overhanging branch of a nearby tree.
I went back to my books with an acknowledgment that I was wrong again. It’s a lovely thing when birds accept our invitation for a visit, though!
I was roused by her song – that half chuckle, half chortle that maggies make with their beaks barely open. The solo came from her newly lubricated throat – sweet chatter in magpie tongue. I looked around for an accomplice – some black and white friend who would know and understand her message. But there was none.
She sang on for twenty five minutes, with an occasional pause and a turn of her head. It was as if this was her hour of worship – a hymn of praise to the Maker, sung by a choir of one – thanks for life, thanks for now, thanks for here!
I put down my books. Maybe this was a time just to drink and to chortle.
Sharonne

The Ride to Cannon Falls

The Ride to Cannon Falls

“Ian,” they said, “You need to go to the bank when you’re in the States. It’s in Cannon Falls, just near Minneapolis St Paul. You’ll be there in May. How about it?”
Of course he said, “Yes!” The phone calls were made and the business transacted. We needed new cheque books issued. “They will be ready!” they said.
And so, on Monday morning, to the amazement of the counter staff at the Holiday Inn, he asked them to organise a taxi to Cannon Falls. “It’s a long way, Sir – 35 miles.” Eyebrows were raised. “Be cheaper to hire a car.” But he was resolute. “No this is how we will do it!”
Fifteen minutes later, the taxi arrived. Well, actually it was a black limo – a large SUV with tinted windows – just like the President’s security escorts. Out climbed the driver. He was of Middle-Eastern origin – with his earpiece for his i-phone in place – one strand in, the other dangling from the handheld device.
We climbed in the back. It took about an hour – open country, past the airport, past the farmers on their tractors – far, far away.
We turned into the metropolis of Cannon Falls – a dozen or so shops … and … the First Farmers and Merchants Bank.
The doors opened before us. “Oh, you’re Ian!” said Linda Collins. “Welcome to Cannon Falls. We’ve been expecting you!”
The business was transacted in ten minutes after introductions all round, and we emerged from the bank with two thick wads of cheque books, wrapped neatly in brown paper. They could have been … well, anything!
The limo was waiting. We climbed back in to the stares of passers-by. The chauffeur talked all the way back to the city on his phone to numerous callers, setting up business for the rest of the day. We went past the tractors, past the airport, and back to 11th Street.
Two hundred and thirty seven dollars, it cost us … but for a day we might have been …the mafia!
© Sharonne Price 2011

The street sweeper

Bob was a cheerful Council worker. He loved his job sweeping the footpaths of the leafy St Peters. His greatest joy was autumn when he got to use the mechanical sweeper up and down the avenues of plane trees.
We saw him early one autumn morning when the sky was that golden pumpkin colour. His hands were gripped on the steering wheel, his eyes focussed on the footpath as he manoeuvred around the trees, with the brushes twirling.
He was doing a fabulous job as the leaves disappeared from beneath him.
What he did not realise was that he had not adjusted the air intake pipe. It stretched up behind him like an organ pipe – right up into the leaves still clinging tenuously to the trees. Just as fast as he was gathering fallen leaves, he was a creating a new carpet behind him.
Sometimes it pays to look behind to see where we’ve been as well as look forward to where we are going.

Sharonne P

The company of trees

The company of trees

These are the ones who endure,
who hold their sway
through the storm and the still.

These are the ones who grow
deep down in the stillness of things.
Ancient burials.

These are the ones who cradle safe
both raven and sparrow young
on slender ledge and landing.

This short green season of bounty
has grown from recent cold.
Exposed, retracted, reserved.

Now the leaves flutter
like prayer flags
released to summer breezes.

So in their company strengthened
I breathe in their living breath
Gentle gifts of sustenance.

And so may we grow strong together,
Quivering, but living old
One season at a time.

Colorado, May 2007

Drought breaker

Drought breaker

There is a whisper about.
Subversive, unfastened.

In the darkening, long shadows blur.
The magpie spreads her dusty wings
and chortling softy,
abandons her summer sentry post
to wait.

Soft leaves turned brown before their time,
Crinkled now and drooping sad,
Sense the change and flutter faintly,
Heads turned gasping t’ward a murmur
of hope.

The world’s gone quiet.
Muted, mysterious, grey to black.
The wrens twitter their families home.
They fluff and settle, burst expectant,
then still.

The earth turns her face to the broody sky.
A drop or two, then gentle release.
The soft cloudy veil unfolds
for the consummating kiss.
Rain.

Sweet rain.

© Sharonne Price