The Conflict is the Message

I have a confession: I’m a reformed journalist. I used to secretly crave conflict, the itch only satisfied by hours spent in a busy, bustling newsroom. I was a journalist for 11 years and had a particular partiality, shared only by a minority of my colleagues, for exposing and bringing down the powerful.

I entered journalism in my 20s thinking it was a path to changing the world for the better. Embedded in my politics was the belief that hierarchical power, and authority more generally, corrupted people. Talking truth to power was my aim, and I sharpened my pen for the likes of local councillors, politicians, police, developers and other corporate types. I did some good work, particularly when I worked on local newspapers, supporting social causes and community campaigns and digging behind the glib public relations veneer of institutions and the powerful. That my beliefs were a little too black and white, that some people in authority worked for the good and weren’t entirely ego driven, that though a person wore a suit or a blue uniform they were still fully human, took me years to realise. By then I was thoroughly disillusioned with journalism; I had given my habit for conflict the flick.  

Adversarial culture is ingrained in some of the key institutions of our society: namely politics, the law and the media. For years these institutions have been losing credibility and legitimacy in the public mind. Surveys show journalists are trusted on a par with used car salesmen; politicians and lawyers fare little better. Many adversarial systems were formed hundreds of years ago and much about them seems irrelevant in our day. Thinking of the proceedings of court rooms or question time in parliament, there is a centuries-old whiff of arrogance and argumentativeness. An Enlightenment philosophy prevails where individuals joust in argument and debate, but the jousting process itself somehow takes on too much importance, collapses into an us-versus-them paradigm, becomes a vehicle for ego where truth and the common good are lost.

In this regard I think of the way the Australian mainstream media has been recently treating the leadership of the Labor Party. For weeks it has been obsessed with “government instability” and Prime Minister Julia Gillard’s weakness as a leader. A journalistic vortex has been created with daily speculation centred on rumours, leaks from plotters and unnamed sources. The PM has been constantly defending herself and responding to minutiae of what she knew when, what she said and didn’t say, what she did and didn’t do. Far from being an objective “messenger”, the media is an agent in the government’s current problems, used by both sides in the Labor Party and, in turn, using them to create an air of scandal and conflict. It is true that the Gillard Government is weak and internally split, but there is often little sense of proportion in the media coverage and, worse still, no larger understanding of what is beneficial for the country and what harm can done by whipping up unrest. Effectively the media are playing an indirect but strong role supporting the Coalition in its quest for government.

The reality is that the mainstream media operates in a moral vacuum, feeding on and amplifying what scraps of conflict it can find and participating in the world view and ego-driven agendas of the powerful. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that currently there is a decline in the old media institutions, the newspapers, and a restructuring in the media landscape brought on by changing technology. The abuses of the Murdoch empire have also been starkly brought to light. 

I think there is a great need for an overarching moral or spiritual order in society with a paradigm of integration and understanding of the common good. The enormous ecological and social challenges in our world require a new approach at the heart of which is a realisation of unity and relationship. We need to nurture our own and the planet’s capacity for creativity and regeneration. That doesn’t mean we abandon contests of ideas or suppress conflict when it arises, but it does mean contests serve a higher purpose than mere ego or greed. Adversarial culture is a dinosaur of centuries past and will eventually fade as the institutions that support it are forced into crisis and a need for radical change. By then my hope is that there will be a popular groundswell for a different kind of society with mutuality and respect at its core.

Kennedy on the Economy

I came across some surprising wisdom from US Senator Robert Kennedy in a speech he delivered on March 18, 1968, at the University of Kansas, just three months before he was assassinated. Its relevance, if anything, has grown since then:


"We will find neither national purpose nor personal satisfaction in a mere continuation of economic progress, in an endless amassing of worldly goods. We cannot measure national spirit by the Dow Jones Average, nor national achievement by the Gross National Product. For the Gross National Product includes air pollution, and ambulances to clear our highways from carnage. It counts special locks for our doors and jails for the people who break them.

"The Gross National Product includes the destruction of the redwoods and the death of Lake Superior. It grows with the production of napalm and missles and nuclear warheads ... It includes the broadcasting of television programs which glorify violence to sell goods to our children.

"And if the Gross National Product includes all this, there is much that it does not comprehend. It does not allow for the health of our families, the quality of their education, or the joy of their play. It is indifferent to the decency of our factories and the safety of our streets alike. It does not include the beauty of our poetry, or the strength of our marriages, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials. The Gross National Product measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country. It measures everything, in short, except that which makes life worthwhile."

The Fuss on Australia Day

The Australia Day fiasco when Prime Minister Julia Gillard and Tony Abbott were made to flee a pro-Aboriginal demonstration in Canberra deserves more insight than the simple and outraged response it has received in the mass media.

Threatening behaviour is wrong and nobody should be fearful for their safety. In my experience a protest can turn nasty when the group anger is not held or channelled by proper organisation or leadership. But the events outside the Canberra restaurant were significant for reasons other than just rowdiness. They forced into public consciousness Australia’s Shadow – the unresolved grievances of indigenous people and the stark divide between black and white in this country.

Many indigenous people continue to live in third-world conditions with third-world diseases and life expectancy in one of the richest countries on the planet. Their marginalisation is a result of the history of Australia – which was founded on the destruction of Aboriginal society and the physical annihilation of Aboriginal people. The present is haunted by the ghosts of the past, but as a nation we are still unable to come to terms with this and act meaningfully. Why?

One reason has to be our relationship to the past and how we relate to time itself. The deep cultural penetration of advertising and public relations since the second half of the 20^th century means we live with a largely cheerful, saccharine world view. “Buy this product and your life will be good” or “Listen to this advice and all will be well.” Whether it’s selling soap or a policy on asylum seekers, simple messages are the norm and self-interest is paramount: the self-interest of the company, organisation or political party conveying the message and the self-interest of the individual consuming it. The truth, which is often complex and requires a perspective beyond the ego, is nowhere in sight.

The effect of advertising and public relations is to create a culture of the “ever-present” where the past does not exist. All that exists is this present opportunity to consume, this golden moment where you can make your life complete with x product. The full roundedness of life with its gamut of emotions and relationships disrupts and interrupts this world view. Why would anybody be angry on Australia Day? What is there to complain about?

We are not merely shaped in the present by our past, but the past actually lives in the present. We see this in a multitude of ways – in our genetic makeup, which comes down from our ancestors, or in the way our evolutionary history can still be seen in our body and mind if we investigate closely. Psychology has long known about the ways in which the mind can be triggered by events that occurred in the past as if they were happening in the present. We humans evolve with our own past, piling the new on the old heap of history. If we mature enough, that heap can be fertiliser for our own good; if we don’t, we become captive to its worst aspects.

Time, I believe, is not really linear, more a progressive spiral or series of circles. The point is that we must first admit, take responsibility for and reclaim where relevant the past. It can’t simply be erased or denied. To deny it would mean, as the Australia Day fracas showed, potentially destructive consequences. This is not to say that opening to the past may not be difficult or challenging, but the rewards are usually great.

We can start by acknowledging all the ways we act in our everyday lives that enhance and enliven connection and relationship: from cooking and gardening, to looking after children and helping a colleague at work; from walking in the sunshine to smelling a rose and being thankful for its perfume. We don’t live in a bubble; we are in a world of connections which we have the power to change.

On Wonder

I'm not sure if it makes any sense, but I try to cultivate wonder. When I walk along the creek that runs near my home, I say hello to some of the trees I pass. I also thank the spirit of the creek for showing me its beauty and wisdom: the water gliding past rocks, the dappled sunlight through the wattles, the swallows and willy wagtails flitting about the path.

Wonder is a precious thing that liberates and enlivens. It's an open-hearted attitude of innocence that, when its thread is followed in depth can lead to big questions like: Who am I? How can I bring more quality into my life? In our secular, materialist society where experience of life is narrowed by denial of the numinous, transcendent aspects of being, we are forced to seek out and snatch moments of wonder where we can. Often we go to nature - a weekend in the mountains, a holiday by the beach, or we might choose to live in a place with an inspiring view.

Talking to trees and land spirits might seem crazy, but until recent times the experience of the sacred, contained in a multitude of religions across many cultures, was the dominant way. And it had been so since the dawn of history. It is not abnormal today for an indigenous person, say someone from Australia, to walk in a particular place and feel the spirits talking to them. Yet in the dominant Western culture, any similar response would be seen as a throwback to the superstition of the dark ages.

The loss of wonder, the experience of the sacred, has had a devastating impact on our world. Large-scale destruction of nature and cultures has been the result as greed and commercialism have become primary human goals. A return of a sense of sacredness must be part of the road back to a healthy relationship with the planet and ourselves as we face the enormous ecological and social challenges of the 21st century.

The first step has to be an acceptance of the non-rational aspects of mind and being. There are many ways in which pseudo-religious experience breaks into profane Western society - for example in war remembrance services, attended by thousands of people, which are highly ritualised and steeped in myth. The decisive move is to embrace that which may not fit into a rationalist norm but nevertheless feels right. There's usually no sense of shame or embarrassment when, for instance, someone directly addresses a loved one who has just died in a speech at a funeral. Spirits are real, just not in a scientific, rationalist sense.

The sacred, often through ritual, can deeply enrich a person's life. I think of the words of American mythologist Joseph Campbell in his book, Oriental Mythology (Penguin Compass, 1991) when he describes the rites of the ancient Japanese religion of Shinto as occasions "for the recognition and evocation of an awe that inspires gratitude to the source and nature of being". He tells how a Shinto shrine ceremony, with ritualised priestly intonation, music and dance, enlivens and deepens a person's sense of the world:

"One turns again and looks at the rocks, the pines, the air and sea, and they are as silent as before. Only now they are inhabited, and one is aware anew of the wonder of the universe."

Art and Integration

Recently I had the pleasure of visiting MONA, the Museum of Old and New Art in Hobart, one of the beacons of culture in Tasmania.

Built into a hill with sheer rock walls and a dizzying collection including ancient Mesopotamian tablets, paintings by Australian greats and modernist sculptures and installations, it was clearly meant to impress. Informed by an avante-garde sensibility, MONA had the flavour of something one might find in Berlin or New York.

After walking through its many levels in cavernous semi-darkness, I pondered the meaning of the experience. Many of the works, particularly the more recent, were about sex and death. There was an element of shock to them, a purposeful desire by the artist to confront the viewer with what lurks in the Shadow.

This is obviously not new in art - consider Caravaggio's brutal, sexual paintings in the 17th century, through to the modern day with Dada, Surrealism and all the rest. The artist is a transgressor, pushing the boundaries of culture and society, challenging the norms of acceptability. Working functionally, this approach renews society by cutting through its stale and restrictive forms and opens the door for new, life-affirming possibilities. It also exposes underlying issues with the hope of change. Chaim Potok's novel My Name is Asher Lev explores these dynamics beautifully. The artistic soul of the main character, Asher Lev, demands the creation of a crucifixion painting that is taboo in his rigid, ultra-orthodox Jewish community. The painting symbolises the inner torment and hope for redemption in the psyche of his community. The artist holds the seed for change.

There is also a dysfunctional side to the artist as transgressor in which shock is elevated as a goal; boundaries are broken for the sake of merrely doing so, not in the service of a broader context. The artist disgorges whatever is in the unconscious, without proper discrimination or maturity. At MONA one of the works on display was a framed photograph of a dog humping a naked man from behind.

I wondered whether integration/synthesis could be a valuable underlying idea or goal in art. That is, the aim is not so much breaking boundaries as playing with boundaries so that they dissolve and a new whole is created; not so much confrontation and discord as unity and new life; and not so much shock as something that, while it may be challenging, is also deeply pleasing - not in a conservative, anodyne way, but in a way that nourishes the soul. As an example I think of the work of Melbourne artist Godwin Bradbeer, whose black and white figurative drawings convey a depth and mystery that is difficult to put into words. Images of faces and bodies appear on a black background, dreamlike and incorporeal as form emerges from nothingness. There is little that is shocking or subversive, just a numinous reverence for the human body and the mystery of creation.

So too I think the poetry of Mary Oliver is an example of art that aims for integration and wholeness, not merely the breaking of forms. In exploring the joy and suffering of life, Oliver seeks an underlying unity, meaning that can tie all experience together. What comes through is a celebratory wisdom immersed in nature as the path to soul. In her poem Sunrise (from Dream Work, 1986) she writes of climbing a hill at dawn and feeling the light that shines across the world:

What is the name
of the deep breath I would take
over and over
for all of us? Call it
whatever you want, it is
happiness, it is another one
of the ways to enter
fire.

Beyond art, integration/synthesis can act as a template or overarching idea for culture and society as a whole. Human exploration, still largely rooted in individual gain and ego achievement, can have at its centre "the many that are one", where one person's quest is that of the entire human race and the planet as a whole. The adventure of life is undertaken not merely for oneself, but mindfully for all, for "the liberation of all beings" as Buddhists like to say. This would mean the entrance of a level of mysticism into human self-understanding and require a shift of foucus, a leap in consciousness. It seems to me that Bradbeer, Oliver and many others are laying the foundations. Wide cracks are opening in the materialistic world order that currently dominates, and as economic, social and environmental crises deepen, we are being called to new vision. Perhaps T.S Eliot had something like this in mind when he wrote the following in the final stanza of his great work, Four Quartets:

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Wild Geese

Sharing the gentle wisdom of Mary Oliver, one of my favourite poets:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

The Ordinary Life - A Poem

Oh Great Ordinariness

You who kindles the sun's rays
and lets the day be day
and night to follow

Oh Great Ordinariness

You who lets the children down the ladder of sleep
and wakes them in the morning
You who keep my feet warm in winter
and allow my body to do what it needs
You who make the bread rise
and the baby squirm in its parcel of skin
You who move mountains one millimetre every 300 years
who sends the millions to work
and brings them home
You who drops words in my mouth
and silence when required
who lifts me up
and lets me sink into my dark unease
You who tumbles empires
and gives birth to prophets

Oh Great Ordinariness

How I've known you
as I count the days
as I watch the lichen on my neighbour's wall
as I watch the smile of my sleeping lover
as I feel your soft grip in every moment.