There's Just Us

I think the media is obsessed with terrorism. It certainly was when I started working as a reporter at The Age newspaper in 2003. Nearly every day at that time one or more journalists were being assigned to stories about terrorists; 9/11 was still fresh in people’s minds, the Bali bombings had happened and politicians and the state security apparatus were trying to keep it at the forefront of public consciousness.

There was a kind of fever in the newsroom, the way that the media can descend into a whirlpool largely of its own making. Only the most tenuous links to terrorism were needed: my first front-page story was an interview with some sheikh in Melbourne’s north whose name had been mentioned in court documents for someone being tried for something in Spain. I had no idea about this man’s background or circumstances, but there I was in what looked like a former warehouse in Brunswick asking him whether he was a member of Al-Qaeda. The day the story appeared a media pack laid siege to his house.

The tendency of news media is towards sensation and maximising polarity – presenting in endless iterations the situations and people that are good and those that are bad. When the media sniffs out a stark polarity of some kind it goes to work. Whether a public existential threat is real or substantial is not so important because the “strong story” is primary.

The black-and-white, “good versus bad” formulations in the media aren’t helpful when it comes to tackling the world’s issues. It’s not that there are no clear problems that need to be addressed – like climate change and security – and people doing good and bad things in a variety of ways, but that the complexity of the world and interconnectedness of everyone and everything calls for a nuanced vision.

In the globalised world of the 21st century there is a strong overarching movement towards unification, the breaking down of boundaries and divisions. With it has come an exposure and meeting of the great variety of cultures and ideas that belong to the whole human family. Such globalised change inevitably produces tensions and brings to the fore aspects of the old order in reaction. When people like Tony Abbott, Donald Trump and Rupert Murdoch beat the “us-and-them” drum in relation to Muslims, they are giving voice to the old circumstances of established power and related boundaries and identities. They are trying to reassert a status quo that is changing fast around them and in doing so convey the sense of fear and threat that comes from an old order giving way to the new.

The global age carries a challenging package of unity and diversity that have to be held and nurtured simultaneously. We are one world – ecological reality tells us so – and yet diversity in all its shapes and forms is vital for human and non-human wellbeing. It will be fascinating to see the kinds of global structures that emerge in future to tackle problems like climate change which are properly addressed not by a gaggle of nation states with competing interests but by a body deciding for the welfare of all and the whole.

In the meantime, the dull roar of the purveyors of “us and them” on all sides is likely to get louder, conflicts intensify and suffering increase as we humans blunder our way towards more enlightened ways of being with each other and the planet. There really is no “us and them”. There’s just us.

Available to the metaphor

Recognise what is before your eyes, and what is hidden will be revealed to you.

- Gospel of Thomas

On the train the other evening heading home from work I watched an army of zombies being mercilessly dispatched. The carnage was happening on a man’s computer in the row of seats in front of me. From around his shoulder I could see the creatures being shot or stabbed in the tawdry action flick that was rolling on the screen.

The film seemed to follow the usual depiction of zombies as slow, witless and bloodied creatures who rise en masse from the ground and who must be killed – with plenty of splattering gore – as part of the heroic action of the plot. It made me think about why they appear in films, what their purpose is, what they mean.

Through the lens of depth psychology we could say that the “un-dead” represent unconscious forces in the psyche that rise up to confront the individual or community. Their heavy slowness signifies the weight or gravity with which they are attached to the living. They are bloodied and deformed, a testament to suffering and wrong relationship, to life gone astray. They are ghosts in earthy, visceral and terrifying form. To respond a person must understand what zombies mean in the context of their life and why they have appeared, and take action that either transforms them towards life-affirmation or causes them to sink back down as benign forces of the earth.

Of course in movies such as the one I was peeking at, zombies are usually just monster curiosities that are splatter fodder for the hero’s weapons. They are treated literally and superficially, as “baddies” that must be destroyed.

There is a lot to be said for a more metaphoric viewing of reality, in all circumstances. Seeing into and beyond the literal not only adds depth and meaning to life, it reveals ever more levels of the universe to human consciousness, opening possibilities for inner growth and evolution.

There are two elements to the development of a deeper understanding of life: asking continually the vital question “Why?”, and the quality of attention or awareness one carries in the world.

“Why?” is sometimes a vexed question, a difficult question, and one that is often not asked in relation to many things. I think of the mainstream media in this regard – how much of what is presented as “news” for mass consumption lacks nuance, fails to look at causes or treats them in only the crudest way. When life is experienced superficially, with little depth or meaning, we are constantly surprised by events; we lack the tools to make sense of reality and are dependent on others to shape understanding for us. A commitment to questioning, to the light that “Why?” shines in dark corners, develops an ability in a person to see patterns beneath the surface of reality. These patterns then act as a guide of truth by which we are able to live a good life.

Necessarily a critical consciousness, if honest, faces that which is difficult in the self and human relations; it reveals all that we prefer to hide or don’t want to face. Difficult and daunting, it is nevertheless the process by which humanity’s consciousness evolves; without looking into the shadows we remain tied to ignorance and suffering.

A questioning life does not mean a miserable one beset by doubt or confined to ascetic introspection. It is simply one lived with an open mind and heart willing to accept gratefully whatever comes as a result.

The quality of attention or awareness we give to anything is of utmost importance. Buddhism emphasises attention in the moment as crucial to enlightenment, being fully awake to all that is right here, right now. To be fully awake, we have to work hard to purify and discipline the mind and body so as to be available to everything in the present moment. The attention produced is akin to what Hindus call “buddhi”, a type of consciousness that perceives beyond the surface of things; that has its tap root in the psyche, in the soul that pervades everything.

When more of our life and our world open in this fashion we move towards what might be called “soul embodiment”, where the subtle music of the universe is continuously playing to our senses. Metaphor comes naturally in this state – it’s not that the meaning of things is immediately revealed to us all the time, but that we live in constant perception of beauty, of the dialogue and play of opposites, of the shades and depths of the inner condition, of the holiness of all creation. Most of us connect with soul from time to time, but only for the very few is it a fundamental lived reality.

For all this, metaphor is close at hand. In some sense it is simply about amplifying what is already playing inside us and the world – our dreams and imagination supply us with a rich stream of symbolic content – or being more available to it, giving it greater regard. Soul is a cornerstone of the universe; it’s our birthright and what we move towards in fulfillment of our nature.

Are the gods real?

The following is an imaginary conversation overheard between two men, Lambros and Aristageles, in the agora in Athens sometime in the 4th century BCE.

Lambros: Tell me, Aristageles, are the gods real?

Aristageles: Who says they are not?

Lambros: Well, I have been thinking for some time about this and re-reading some of the great philosophical works. Dangerous though it may be to say so, it seems to me a fair conclusion to deny the existence of all gods.

Aristageles: Ah, friend, you rarely turn away from a controversial line of thought. It is a good thing. By what paths of reasoning have you come to this one, Lambros?

Lambros: Xenophanes pointed out that in different countries gods were represented differently – Thracians see their deities as being like themselves, Negroes picture them with black skin. Xenophanes said that if cows and horses could paint their gods, they would look like cows or horses. It follows that what we call divine beings are simply mental pictures of ourselves, creations of our own mind, particularly when you consider that in stories they display all the human attributes: greed, envy, lust, jealousy, love, fairness, justice and all the others. What conclusion can there be other than they are fictions of the mind?

Aristageles: Yes, but Xenophanes did not throw out divinity. Instead, he put forward a universal intelligence that moved everything. Does this not satisfy you?

Lambros: I must say no. Whether it is one great god or many, it remains that they are products of human thought. Take them all away and the world is no different – there would still be storms and bolts of lightning without Zeus, the sea would not change without Poseidon or the crops cease to grow in the absence of Demeter. It seems to me that fear and ignorance hold people to these fictions, which disappear like flimsy threads under the torch of reason.

Aristageles: So you say reason is the only way to truth?

Lambros: I do. It is clear that reason banishes the gods.

Aristageles: Friend, I think you are mistaken. Reason banishes falsehood, but the gods are neither false nor true.

Lambros: How so?

Aristageles: Well you are right that the gods cannot withstand a purely logical line of thought, but not everything is subject to logos. There are some things that simply are, in and of themselves; and it would be entirely wrong to speak about them any other way. I think the gods are in this category. Let me explain.

What we call Zeus, Poseidon, Demeter, Apollo, Athena are representations of the kinds of power in the universe. There is the power that manifests in the sky, the power of the sea, the generative power of the earth, the power of wisdom and foresight. It is true that we fix certain human-like images to these aspects of power in order to relate to them, and Xenophanes was right to point out that different nations have different images, nevertheless underneath them a real presence of power remains. What can we really say about this power, other than it simply is? When did it come to be and when will it end? It made us and we are its vessels to venerate and honour. Or do you say that reason can explain this and everything?

Lambros: It is possible. Democritus said that the universe was made of atoms, invisible objects that are the building blocks of everything and that are constantly moving. Why should we not hold to this, rather than that Zeus created all?

Aristageles: Democritus may be right, but the gods are not extinguished as a result, for they are the metaphysical mirror to physical reality. Deny them and you reject something essential about the world – the response of the heart and soul. My friend, if you split reason away from soul you are heading towards a kind of tyranny of logos.

Lambros: Logos frees the mind from fairytales and other nonsense. The stories tell us that our Zeus, whom we venerate so much, is a serial adulterer, rapist and liar. All the gods have flaws, and some are said to have done such beastly things that you and I for shame would never contemplate. If these higher beings are in charge of the world, no wonder there is such chaos! Why don’t we just sack the lot of them and find others to worship that are truly virtuous and wise?

Aristageles: You would sack a god? Ha ha! I think you miss the point of our pantheon. Power, in its purest sense, is neither good nor bad but just what it is. It is nature. One day it is kind to humans, the next it is totally destructive. You have been to sea, haven’t you? It can be breathtakingly beautiful on a fair day with Zephyros blowing in the sails, but then a storm appears and suddenly the sea is a seething monster tossing your boat like a toy and threatening doom for everybody. The gods are not to be trifled with.

There is something else revealed in what you describe as the flaws of the gods about which we can say a few words. Power has a dark, corruptive side. Are you well-acquainted with The Bacchae, the drama by Euripides?

Lambros: Yes, but I haven’t seen it for years. I used to have nightmares after every performance.

Aristageles: I can understand. How would you describe Dionysus in the play?

Lambros: Pitiless, vengeful, savage.

Aristageles: Indeed, Euripides does not hold back. Dionysus could simply have taught Pentheus a lesson and let him live. Instead, Pentheus is torn apart by his own crazed mother and even in death utterly humiliated.

Lambros: Just as I said, the gods are a frightfully awful lot.

Aristageles: But look at the truth here: power is corruptible. All power as it manifests in this world has the potential to go astray, to run amok. We humans are the best exemplars of this and war is our chief tool. Countless tyrants have waged war to satisfy their depraved power hunger, murdering and enslaving whole nations in the process. Even our own fair democratic Athens did not rest in the glory of its achievements but had to build an empire and subjugate other Greeks. We must always be on our guard for the ways that power can subvert the human soul.

Lambros: Yes, I see, but my earlier argument about the gods remains – if we stopped praying to Dionysus or Zeus or whoever, how would anything be different?

Aristageles: Well, perhaps immediately afterwards and on the surface of things, not much would change. But you see prayer and sacrifice and every other ritual of worship are about the kinds of relationship we humans have to the divine. If we no longer give thanks and speak to the mysterious power in the world and in us, the power does not disappear. It will continue to move us, to create and destroy and spin the almighty web that is the universe. Whether we embrace it or not, we are still its subjects, so the real question is: What happens to us if we reject the gods? Will we not attempt to usurp their power? What will check our power lust and hubris?

Lambros: You paint a bleak picture of humanity, Aristageles. There will still be love and laughter even after all the fantasies and phantasms are gone.

Aristageles: Maybe so, but the fantasies and phantasms are richly woven into our culture and have been for countless centuries. What do you propose to replace them with, nothing? Take them away and something essential is lost – nay, not lost outright but in us. If we no longer ask Demeter for guidance, will we treat the earth with respect? If we take the goddesses out of the springs and rivers, what will stop us from fouling their waters? Can you imagine the woods without nymphs and muses, Cithaeron without satyrs, Olympus without the gods? Can you imagine what that would be like?

Lambros: I confess at this point I cannot, but maybe one day ...

Aristageles: It will be a sad day indeed, my friend.

A Dialogue on Wisdom

Two men, Aristageles and Caro, meet late one afternoon in the marketplace or agora in Athens, sometime in the 4th century BCE. The following is their conversation. The reader will find that the themes in this mock-Socratic dialogue have a somewhat timeless flavour.

Aristageles: My good man, Caro, it pains me to see you like this. What in Zeus’ name is the matter?

Caro: I wish I knew.

Aristageles: But why such a perplexed look?

Caro: I have just spent a fair time of the day at the home of my friend Philon, and with his companions discussing the nature of wisdom. Having heard many fine arguments I feel little more than a fool.

Aristageles: Why so?

Caro: Many things were said, but of them I can make no difference to say “this is better than that” or “the evidence presented conclusively proves this argument”. I’m afraid that I am completely unwise about wisdom.

Aristageles: Well, what did they say about this most weighty subject?

Caro: Philippus said wisdom was something that could only be acquired by a select few, and only with great learning. The masses had no understanding of what it meant to be wise – only philosophers had this capacity. According to Philippus wisdom is a pure quality of mind, like the finest thread woven after all else is discarded.

Aristageles: Is that so?

Caro: Atharcus set wisdom with knowledge. The more we know, the wiser we are. One who is a blacksmith is wise about metals – their properties, how to handle and shape them. Or one who knows how to please his lovers is wise about love. The more we understand – about anything and everything – the wiser we become. Atharcus believes that wisdom does not exist purely in itself, but only as a higher register of knowledge.

Aristageles: Hmmm. He is a clever fellow.

Caro: Pellius said wisdom was vested in authority and tradition. By following the laws that have come down over the centuries, we take up the accumulated learning of our forebears. Consider the greatness of Athens, he said. Is that not a mark of the fruits of wisdom? All that remains is to obey authority with a respectful and cordial attitude.

Aristageles: I hope Pellius was respectful and cordial when pouring the wine amongst his comrades. Were there others who spoke?

Caro: Agistemon shouted in the middle of Pellius’ speech, his belly full of drink, that we were wasting our time discussing wisdom. He said it belonged to the past when there was war, people were hungry and you needed your wits to survive. Now all that’s required is skill to continue the plentiful supply of food, horses and slaves.

Aristageles: Was that all?

Caro: Yes, more or less. Maurus, Philon and I sat quietly and took it all in without offering an opinion.

Aristageles: And you say out of all that you cannot sort the good grain from the chaff, or tell which line of reasoning most worthy?

Caro: I confess I cannot.

Aristageles: Well, good fellow, will you permit me to entertain you with my thoughts? I hope I will not add to your confusion or plunge your mind into greater darkness.

Caro: Not at all, Aristageles. Your considered opinion is always welcome.

Aristageles: Well, then, let’s first define wisdom and then address the arguments one by one.

I would say there are two types of wisdom: one of the gods and the other of men. Do you see that sparrow over there pecking at crumbs on the ground? Is it not a wise little beast?

Caro: I should say not. It is simply doing what is in its nature – looking for food and eating it.

Aristageles: Come, Caro, you have little faith. The sparrow’s wisdom is of the gods. It is endowed with an instinct for hunting and gathering what is most beneficial to it. When you and I were born, did we not cry out fiercely when taken from our mothers’ wombs? Every newborn cries so that its helpless purple skin is swaddled to keep it warm, so that its mother and everyone else around pay it proper attention to keep it safe and well. How did we know to do this if not granted by the gods? Wisdom consists in knowing the paths of the good, and the gods are supreme in knowledge.

Now, there is a wisdom that belongs properly to men and it also is about recognising the paths of the good. Tell me, would a goatherd take out his animals when he sees a storm brewing in the sky, or a farmer plant seeds on stony ground? I should think not. They know that it would be of no benefit to do so because the conditions are not right. It is wisdom to see the paths of the good and to act accordingly.

Caro: I am with you in your argument thus far, Aristageles, but you are surely debasing wisdom to say that any goatherd or farmer is wise because they act according to plain reason. It has to be more than that.

Aristageles: You are right, it is more; but only by degree. Socrates was the wisest of men because he followed the paths of the good considerably further than the average Athenian. He tracked the good into the mind and pursued it all the way into the refined air of Ideas, that pure realm where the mind touches the gods. Few of us have the brilliance of a Socrates, but all of us can attune ourselves to the good in many different ways. We can be respectful and kind to other people; we can be moderate in our ways and means; we can speak up for what is right in the Assembly so that justice and fairness are the cornerstones of the life of our polis; we can honour and give thanks to the gods with a pure heart. All of these are the basis for wisdom and all are available to the highest and lowest in the land; as much to slaves as to aristocrats, and equally to those with little intellect as to the most learned.

Caro: Your reasoning seems sound, but is it not true that men have different notions of the good? The Persians, for instance, thought it good to conquer Greek cities, whereas we resisted. A man who treats his wife badly can say that he is doing the right thing, or someone who is greedy believe that ownership of houses and jewels leads to happiness.

Aristageles: Yes, fair point, Caro. I would say that the good is that which preserves and benefits life. Let me explain. When the Persians thought it good to attack Greek cities they were thinking of themselves and not the benefit of life in the broadest possible terms. They were hungry for power and wealth and showed remarkable hubris. Eventually they were defeated and in turn conquered and ruined. Had the Persians approached us more humbly, not as invaders but as fellow men wishing to learn from us and trade in goods and ideas, do you think we would have refused them? Such an approach would have been far more in accordance with the good and with true wisdom. It does not benefit life to spread enmity, war and conquest; only peace and mutual interest preserve wellbeing.

So also to one who mistreats his wife or his slaves, or has any other kind of vice and thinks he is doing the right thing – he must ask himself some appropriate questions. Is what I am doing or thinking respectful and kind? Does it benefit wellbeing for all? If he is honest, the answers will reveal the truth. If he cannot work it out, he need speak to others and perhaps together come to a satisfactory conclusion. Sometimes the good is not arrived at easily or won with a minimum of effort, but the rewards are always great.

Caro: It is well reasoned, Aristageles.

Aristageles: Now, what of the arguments of your fellows? It was Philippus, I think you said, who stated that only philosophers and the learned few could be wise. I hope you will not be offended when I say that I have spent many hours at symposia with philosophers and thought afterwards I could have learnt more from watching a sparrow. Bombast, word plays, tortuous arguments that meander with no consequence are too often the shoddy tools of those who think they have something important to say. Dear Caro, to have read much and talked much is no guarantee of wisdom.

Caro: Ha! Then you must have met some of my comrades.

Aristageles: I confess I have not, but the point is that wisdom, like the air we breathe, is pure and is available to everyone regardless of whether they have studied philosophy or even know how to read the word.

Now, Atharcus it was who said that wisdom was knowledge. Would we really think that a blacksmith who is a master in his craft is wise simply because he knows all there is to know about iron and bronze? What if he used his skill to make weapons for the invading Persians? If he does not make use of his talents and knowledge for the good then no wisdom can come from him. It is the good that is the final authority and not cleverness or technical mastery; otherwise we would have no need for laws or justice. But I’m afraid that men are often seduced by knowledge, and fluffing themselves up like cocks because they have mastery in this way or that they behave shamefully to others and displease the gods. Do you remember Arachne, the young Lydian woman whose skill in weaving was so great that she had the temerity to challenge Athena to a contest? Athena changed her into a spider so that her weaving was of true benefit. Knowledge is nothing if it is without humility and aimed at the good.

Caro: Fine, Aristageles. But what about the argument of Pellius, who said that wisdom belonged to authority and tradition? Of all, this one to me has most merit. When I think of Thales, Heraclitus, Pythagoras and all the great philosophers, I see how much I and all Greeks have benefited from their thought. I look at the public buildings of Athens, our grand festivals, our system of democratic government that is envied by so many, our naval fleet, and reflect that no other city remotely rivals this one. Is all this not the product of wisdom, accrued over the ages, for the benefit of all; and should we not acknowledge and celebrate it?

Aristageles: By Zeus, we should! And yet, at the same time, I am troubled. Our fine city put to death Socrates, the greatest mind of his generation, not by a travesty of justice but by the fair working of the celebrated laws of this land. Our fine city sent thousands of good men to their deaths for the folly of supremacy over the Aegean, only to be thwarted and punished. How many mothers, wives, children howled with grief over the barren graves of their loved ones in all those years that we warred with Sparta? Yes, here in Athens there is wisdom in good measure; but also power hunger, greed and ignorance. It is up to young people like you, Caro, to weave the strands of inherited wisdom into a new garment that will sit much more comfortably on the shoulders of all men and women.

Caro: I will reflect on your words, Aristageles. And what of Agistemon, who said we had no need of wisdom anymore?

Aristageles: He profanes the gods. Can we do without the light of the sun or without water to drink? In good times or bad, wisdom is sunlight shining in our soul, pure spring water quenching our thirst for life.

Caro: It is well said.

Aristageles: Thank you, dear friend.

Hope

Do you remember those vivid, stylised posters of Barack Obama emblazoned with the word “HOPE” that appeared just before he was elected president of the United States in 2008?

What happened to the euphoria of hope that swelled like a huge wave at that time, millions of people attending his inauguration and seeing his speech around the world?

As the curtain begins to close on his presidency, Obama has critics on all sides and his popularity is only average. Though he made important steps towards a federal healthcare system, signing cuts to greenhouse gas emissions and speaking out on gun control, some are less than satisfied. They point to his support for Wall Street after the global financial crisis against the calls for radical reform, his tepid response to police shootings of young African Americans, and the escalation of drone attacks in the Middle East which have killed an unknown number of civilians in recent years.

The hope rising with the election of the first black president in American history, a milestone in many respects, evaporated probably as early as his first term in office. Why?

Hope is a powerful emotion that lifts the human spirit; arguably no individual can adequately carry it for millions of people. A president cannot simply do whatever they want, but must work within the system. At the top of the pecking order, they are at the same time a servant of the reality they inherit.

When an exuberance of hope appears like it did in the US around Obama, I think it speaks more about general conditions of despair and entrenched problems than the brilliance of the individual to whom it is attached. Not to diminish the man’s talents or his capacity to ignite feelings with inspiring words, the test of hope is rather its everyday existence in people’s lives and society as a whole, and not simply in the rolling bandwagon of a political campaign.

Investing hope in people and circumstances is fine but we ought to let go the attachment as easily as it was applied in the first place, to not hold too tightly to outcomes; not because of fear that things will not turn out the way we want but in acknowledgement that hope is far more than any single person, idea or institution. The boundless, free experience and expression of hope is what really counts.

The importance of someone like Obama lies more in their capacity to act as a catalyst for positive change broadly than in what they as an individual are able to achieve. Such a person becomes a symbol and a lightning rod for mass unfulfilled desires, but we have to reckon the crescendo of energy that arises for all that comes from it, for the changes and actions large and small that it inspires in millions of people. My sense is that many people are drawn to do good in many different ways in a collective surge of hope, but if our vision is simply on the one who acts as catalyst we miss the vitality of what is being worked and downplay our own empowerment in the process. Holding too tightly to the individual and not what their symbol activates in us, we can become disappointed and cynical or conversely starry-eyed and idolising.

There are parallels here to other people in history who became cult figures – like one of the most significant of them all, Jesus Christ. For many Christians, Jesus is real and extant in a literal way – people pray to him and believe he intervenes beneficially in their life. What occurs, more likely, is a projection of the devotee’s inner hopes and desires onto a symbolic figure, when the real value is the symbol’s ability to inspire and unlock the powers of the believer to improve their life and that of others.

When the focus of hope is turned away from an attachment to an individual or thing and experienced purely in itself, we find its presence more widespread and common than previously imagined. In this regard I look outside where I live in central Victoria. Photos taken of the area in the 19th century show barely a tree for miles – the local box-ironbark forests were decimated during the gold mining boom. Now, decades after mining and intensive agriculture stopped, the forests have reappeared and there is a general respect and valuing of the bush. I find great hope in this as an example of people moving to a much better relationship with nature, which we desperately need at this time of global ecological crisis.

Hope is, in fact, everywhere if we choose to see it: the birth of any living being is an expression of hope; our waking into the beautiful promise of each new day is a sign of hope; having nourishing food to eat and clean water to drink is evidence of hope; as is the ability to smile in the face of good times and bad. Hope is really the goodwill that exists as the cornerstone of all life.

Luck and Mystery

The impact was sudden. It came from nowhere. Thud! Then a stifled scream from the front seat, shudders, and the car came to a stop. “It’s gone under the car! We’ve hit a roo, we’ve hit a roo. It just jumped out – there was no time to do anything.”

I was in the back and talking to another person when it happened. The five of us quickly got out, shaking from shock, and inspected the scene. The car had hit a male kangaroo, a young adult, and it was still alive though prone on the road with blood trickling from its head. As people fumbled with their phones to ring Help for Wildlife, the animal’s breathing became shallower until, after a minute or two, it passed from this world. We dragged the body away from the road and stared at it in mute silence for a few moments, then got back in the car and drove off to our destination.

Had I and the others decided on a different route to take us to the start of our bushwalk that early autumn morning the young kangaroo, its fur still new and clean, would have been alive. Had we been on that road a few seconds earlier or later it would have bounded across the bitumen and into the bush on the other side. We consoled the driver by saying it was luck, pure luck. All of us had driven along roads in the area hundreds of times and not struck an animal once.

We humans have always sought to understand and explain our world. In the early millennia of our history there was no such thing as a random event because all phenomena were thought to be evidence of some sort of design or intent. In the magical world-view of an early culture, an explanation for the incident with the kangaroo could run something like: the animal was an omen sent by a god to warn us of bad things to come; or the animal possessed a spirit that had done wrong and its violent death was recompense. Rational Western society has abandoned thinking of this kind; as the supernatural has been taken away from this world, randomness or chance has appeared to fill much of the void of the unexplained. According to this view, there are no ulterior motives or meanings to certain events other than the natural variables that lead, for instance, to a kangaroo being on a particular road at a particular time and a car heading towards it.

The one key problem with randomness is that it is impossible to say with certainty what is random and what is not. Meanings of some kind are always, teasingly, under the surface. For instance, we could look at the kangaroo’s death in light of the speed at which the car was going or the distractedness of the driver in a car full of people not being sufficiently attentive to the possibility of animals in the early morning. Scientific inquiry itself only proceeds by asking questions about the unknown, and in the process of gaining more insight revealing other areas of mystery. The uncertainty about what is truly random invites an extension of awareness that can encompass many perspectives for the most holistic understanding possible.

Holistic understanding builds an intimate relationship with mystery. At the same time as it seeks meaning out of the unknown, it leaves ample room for more mystery at every turn, seeing it not as a bad thing that must be overcome but as a teacher and guide.

What we call luck is actually the intersection of mystery and the physical world; and it serves as a reminder of the unknown at work in our lives. Looking closer, we see it everywhere and in everything. All life, indeed the existence of the universe, depends ultimately on luck – not randomness or chance, but the meeting of mystery with a creative spark that produces material reality. What was it other than luck that created you or me? Any number of factors could have conspired to prevent two particular people coming together, for their sexual union not to be fertile, for their coupling to produce not you but some other human being. The same applies to all other aspects of life. Natural and human systems that support life in a myriad of ways do so always holding the hand of mystery and are always beholden to grace, the union of dark and light that set them in train in the first place.

How, then, do we reconcile luck with meaning and purpose? As we enquire with openness into the nature of things, so meaning is gradually revealed to us; meaning that is necessarily conditioned by the culture and time in which we live. The further we progress in this way, the more is there a deep sense of things as they are, as they need to be, an awareness of solidity amid constant flux. The task is then to serve this core or essence behind the appearance of things, to experience and know it more. Serving it is intrinsically about acting in ways that affirm life, that build love and connection, nurturing the multiplicity and variety of forms in the created world.

There is a saying that “you make your own luck”; that is, as you act in the world, so mystery responds by reinforcing and furthering your intentions. That’s right to a degree, but I think there is a more humble position that is closer to the general truth, one of “you make of what luck gives you”. The life we are given, including its slings and arrows of misfortune, is a gift to be nourished and to be given back a thousand times in good acts to all. The Roman statesman and Stoic philosopher Seneca said, “The Fates lead him who will; him who won’t they drag.” Him who won’t disregards the creative life essence as it manifests in himself and others, and as a consequence is “dragged” through a seemingly random world. Him who will responds to inner nature and is therefore led in a purposeful way, in turn furthering its designs and the multifarious beauty that is constantly unfolding all around.

On the Good

When I reflect on what it means to be good my mind takes me to two people in a powerful book I read years ago when trying to learn more about my birthplace, the Ukrainian city of Kiev.

Alexandra and Mikolai appear in Babi Yar, a firsthand account of life under the Nazi occupation of Kiev during World War II by Anatoli Kuznetsov. Alexandra was the young Kuznetsov’s godmother and Mikolai her blind, wispy-haired husband.

The couple is mentioned only sparingly in the book, but always in a light of contrast to some tragedy or horror that the author is describing. Kuznetsov says, “They were such good and inoffensive old folk, probably the most kind-hearted people I had ever met in my life.”

Alexandra worked as a cleaner at the local children’s handicraft centre where she would take her husband each morning and together they would spend hours sweeping the large yard. “When they had finished it looked really tidy and you could see the marks left by the rake, like freshly sown vegetable gardens in spring.”

Towards the end of the book, with the Germans retreating in pandemonium before the advancing Soviet forces and Kuznetsov and his mother left in the practically deserted city with full-scale war around them, Alexandra and Mikolai suddenly appear like strange apparitions.

“The old lady was carefully leading the blind man, keeping him away from the pot-holes and paving stones and talking to him very earnestly ... When they found we were at home they both broke into tears. They had simply been trying to find some human beings.”

The pair had been sheltering in a basement and not eaten for two days. After gratefully accepting some food, they decide to go back to look after what was left of their home. Kuznetsov suggests to Alexandra that she look around the abandoned yards and cellars in the neighbourhood for anything valuable.

“The old lady threw up her hands. ‘In other people’s cellars? To go and steal? The Lord forgive you, my child!’”

He watches them go, fearful they might be shot: “They were very unusual people, really ‘not of this world’. They went off across the square, destruction all around them, arm in arm, chatting quietly to each other.”

For me, Alexandra and Mikolai capture something essential about the nature of goodness: though it exists in life-generative and sustaining acts, in everyday deeds of kindness and generosity, it is ultimately “not of this world”. That is, it’s a quality of being.

While worldly laws and customs are important in defining what is right and appropriate, in the end it is the intangible spirit of the law that matters, the grace that is summoned to affirm life. Some laws are flouted with the consent of the whole society – I think of the way Christian nations nominally living by the commandment “thou shalt not steal” blatantly stole the land of Indigenous people in places like Australia – while other laws become redundant over time and no longer serve the good but for whatever reason remain, and there are many instances of the letter of the law followed to bad ends. Without a healthy link to the spirit of the good, to the quality of being, all attempts at practical goodness go awry. In the way the good is applied in the material world, its spiritual foundations have to be strong.

We all need guidance at times in our life, particularly in our early years, but goodness is not something that can be imposed from outside; we either locate it within and draw from it or we reside in the darkness. A truly good person does not have to work hard at it – it’s simply something that emanates from the centre of their self and reflects their true nature.

There is a lot of uncertainty about what it “means” to be good thanks to the complex systems of thought and institutions that have developed in human society. In our time all of us are enmeshed in social and economic systems designed for exploitation of the Earth, its resources and people. What does it mean to be good when we light our homes with electricity from polluting coal-fired power stations or buy shirts made in China where workers endure horrendous conditions and are paid $1 a day? How do we know the good when we are lost in the mazes of academic hyperbole or religious dogma or following the various types of glamour of mass culture and the media?

Ultimately it’s about what we value and where we direct our attention and energy. If we choose the simple path of life affirmation, our actions will reflect that choice and we will be impelled to act for the good in a multitude of ways because every person and every thing shares that basic essence of goodness and all are one. It doesn’t mean that our choices or actions will always be right or that we won’t be touched by the complexity of the world, but as long as we keep drinking from the well of goodness within we provide it with opportunities for expression in the world.

Why is it, then, that we slip from the good so often in our lives? Why do we follow the crooked ways that lead to disconnection and harm? Buddhism identifies ignorance, fear and greed as the motivations for all that’s wrong, pointing to the darker side of human nature. And just as goodness goes forward and reproduces itself in the world, so evil does also. Carl Jung, reflecting on the appeal of Nazism in his post-war essay After the Catastrophe, said: “The wickedness of others becomes our own wickedness because it kindles something evil in our own hearts.” Fear, ignorance and greed become embedded in the norms of thinking and institutions of society, as aspects of the good can be as well.

An important observation here is that human nature is not fixed. Like everything else, it changes. And though good and evil will likely always exist as a condition of life in the temporal world, we can choose how much one or the other influences us. An individual can become more psychologically mature and integrated over time in a process in which their darker side gradually holds less sway. So too collectively – as more people become more whole, reaching for and holding the light of goodness, human nature evolves to embrace the good more fully. As a result, society inevitably changes to reflect this and draws closer to the shining, ineluctable quality of being that is the heart of the good.