STAY TRUE, SAY A PRAYER — ‘white lady proverb’

As I brace myself to try to write something of substance, something that might carve out a bit of meaning into a tough week, I glance directly at the back of the man waiting for his coffee at Starbucks. He is wearing a fashion item I grew to adore — and rely on — while living in Japan. A piece of clothing (a track top in this case) bearing the kind of sentimental English slogan you rarely see a native speaker wearing. In large capital letters it says to me, STAY TRUE.

Why this slogan would suddenly bring tears to my eyes is a long story, but it has a bit to do with me being at the tail end of what has seemed like an eternal period of morning sickness (so feeling P-R-E-T-T-Y fragile albeit excited about what it signals), and it also has to do with the memory of Japanese elementary school kids keeping my spirits high with their funny and cheesy Janglish fashion at a time when I really needed their pearls of sometimes strangely-worded but often profound wisdom. The chubby little six-year old who once called out, “I love you Miss Jane” down the corridor after I had had a run-in with a staff member who was not particularly tolerant of my lack of Japanese ability at the time, also helped a great deal.

This release of emotion at the sight of a mass-produced Asian fashion slogan also has to do with my relationship to writing and journalism, and to myself.

For all my spiritual seeking and attempts at various kinds of prayer and meditation, I sometimes reflect that it is writing that connects me more than anything to a feeling of “staying true”. It’s very elusive, but the feeling sometimes settles on me, for a moment, hopefully long enough to help me lay down the foundations of an introduction or opening line.

I used to escape to the bathrooms while on deadline as a journalist for The Point Cook Banner, suffering from writer’s block, stuck without a true hook for the story. Out of nowhere, I would offer this automatic and unselfconscious supplication to God, the kind that only surfaces naturally in moments of desperation like when I was about 10-years old and nearly drowned in a rip-ridden Wamberal beach before a random stranger, a woman (or iron woman perhaps), grabbed me and body-surfed me to shore.

While deadline is not as life-threatening as being caught in a towering whirlpool of white water, the pressure can certainly be clarifying — especially as a rookie journalist who cared way too much about her stories. So I’d be sitting in the toilet cubicle, my head in my hands, or staring at the empty document on my screen, searching for an answer. I’d ask that voice of wisdom, of reason within, that source of all things, God, Allah (call it what compels you), for help in trying to say something true and worthwhile. I’d acknowledge, remember, that there is truth, and that I intend to help highlight at least some part of it, so ‘please God, give us a hand here, even if you take the story somewhere I don’t expect or want it to go’.

I can’t say the prayer worked every time, but there was a handful of stories that really came together after that moment of despair, or more importantly, after the prayer that followed the moment of despair. I imagine many writers, artists and musicians do this organically because they are so well-connected to their voice, and what they have to share with the world. They might not call that process of sharing their heart or insight with the world a form of prayer. But what is prayer but an attempt to find inspiration, expression, and connection to the pure essence within?

Maybe the process behind the “stay true” jacket design wasn’t particularly creative or inspired, but by accident perhaps, it helped me reconnect, the way artists do, with an inner essence. For me that essence is an inexplicable and expansive feeling of possibility, intrigue and hope.

These two simple words seemed to bring me back to something fundamental that is beyond the repetitive cycles of anger, fear, panic and prejudice in the news and the world these days.

Whether it’s politicians grandstanding about the need for “embarrassing conversations” with the Muslim community (but not with problematic allies), talkback callers spewing hate and declaring the end of the world, understandably alarmed but not always helpful commentators constantly reminding us the threat of terrorism “is not going anywhere”, or too-cool Twitter-ers relishing the sarcasm of a viral “quote” that turned a common query about Ramadan into a “white people proverb”, language has become weary, jaded, polarising and often deeply cynical. It is lacking the thing that gives words and stories any power to break new ground.

Hope.

Far from being clichéd, this crucial organ of our humanity is interesting and substantial in the context of widespread anxiety and down-heartedness. Where the latter puts us on a narrow, flat path to God-knows-where, the former opens up new dimensions and possibilities.

We naturally tune in to news and commentary to connect with our world, because tuning out entirely seems a bit forced and perhaps even unethical, but every time we do tune in, we risk moving further away from a centred or inspired state of mind. It becomes harder to “stay true” to who we are, or if not who we are, then who we ought to be in order to be as well — and as well-functioning — as individuals and as a society as we can be. That is, composed, calm, accepting of what we can and can’t control, rational, co-operative problem-solvers, helpers, healers, lovers, friends, family members, co-workers, carers, creators and builders. Not panicked, cynical, withdrawn and anxious navel-gazers.

From a purely pragmatic approach, “staying true” to those higher virtues and helping each other do so is essential for getting on with the business of building on what’s good and combating what’s not in our world. There has to be a balance between these two as it is too easy to forget the former when overcome by the latter. This leads to excessive and exhausting anxiety, which clouds our vision in tackling problems.

There are real and very confronting problems in the world but if trying to fix them, and trying to campaign the powers-that-be to fix them, leads us to increasing anger and despair, we won’t get anywhere. We have to operate from a deeper place. For some that is spiritual, for others it just is.

It is that place that concerns itself only with our actions and intentions to help or change a situation, and does not preoccupy itself with despairing over the reality or outcome.

There are so many people who are getting on with doing what you can as a human when you don’t have control over others and the world. Take Lou, the taxi driver who acted so swiftly to help someone injured in the Bourke St rampage, a shaken young man nearby assumed he was a paramedic. This shaken man reflected that despite his horror at witnessing the tragedy, his encounter with the taxi driver gave him a glimmer of hope and love for humanity on that dark and incomprehensible day.

Or the Romanian baker who fought a terrorist off with a crate and helped people hide in the Borough Market attack. Or ASIO chief Duncan Lewis’s calm and reasoned response to Pauline Hanson’s attempts to further demonise Islam and blame our refugee-intake for terrorism. Or the thousands of people from all backgrounds who are reaching out to strangers and expressing solidarity in times of conflict and violence.

My efforts are far more modest and sheltered – reading the same set of animal-themed books to my son because he loves them and is learning new things each time even though for his adult mum it can all feel a bit old and repetitive! (I did find a funny book the other day hiding at the back of our bookshelves about a boy running naked through snow-filled streets on Christmas eve which brought great relief to the monotony of animal books).

But really, I think my true contribution both to George, my son, and to anyone else who is listening, is staying true to who I am as a person of hope and optimism. I am a born optimist and I think optimists have a place in the world, even if they infuriate the realists, cynics and those in situations too unbearable for optimism.

I have to admit, at times it’s been really hard to own this aspect of myself because it’s often associated with naivety and a lack of connection to real hardship, to reality. As I get older, I appreciate that resilient communities and individuals always have a strong element of hope in their approach to life. This is the reality.

There is a reason so much of the literature we studied in high school had hope as a key theme (A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich and Shawshank Redemption come to mind). Learning about the powerful phenomenon of hope through stories of human struggle and heartache is a key part of a person’s education and upbringing, in my view, because our level of hope, conscious or unconscious, shapes everything we do.

How open we are to good things happening can positively affect many aspects of our lives, just as our preoccupation with the bad stuff magnifies or even exacerbates that stuff. We’ve heard a lot about positive thinking from business gurus and pop psychologists lately, so maybe this timeless message proclaimed by all of our religions and prophets, as well as geniuses the likes of Albert Einstein, is starting to sound a bit clichéd, even cheap.

But something must be resonating, some deep need being met, when books like The Secret sell that many million copies. To me it’s not just a matter of “positive thinking”, it’s about restoring a sense of openness to possibilities — that incredible sensation that people are blessed with in childhood, of being in a world that is our oyster if we dare to engage with it imaginatively and creatively. Of not being burdened by worries about the future. It’s exhausting keeping up with and trying to play along with the natural optimism of an 18-month old and it reveals to me constantly how much work I have to do in restoring my own sense of wonder, openness and living in the moment.

When I reflect in writing though, I realise this part of me is not lost. I have a deep desire to share it, to have it fostered, and to soak up what there is of it in others around me. But I can’t let this optimism allow me to be naïve about the contagion of pessimism in the world. I have to constantly guard against its strong pull and work hard on building momentum in the opposite direction.

There is a song by a band called Faithless that has always held me to this. My husband (then boyfriend) introduced me to it when he saw that cynicism seeping into my character in my adolescence after I’d been hurt by a mature-aged brat who didn’t respect this part of me (among all the other aspects of adolescence that can dull one’s spark, so unfortunately I can’t have the satisfaction of entirely blaming him!).

The song is called Liontamer and contains the line: “If you place a thing in the centre of your life that lacks the power to nourish, it will eventually poison everything that you are, and destroy you.” Check it out — it’s a powerful tune.

It is hard to deny this truth, and it helps me re-anchor when I hear it. It reminds me to pray, to seek nourishment and strength, and protection against states, thoughts, preocuppations that make me weak. The song also reminds me — as do world events — just how dangerous toxic ideas and destructive mindsets can be.

This month has got off to a scary start, with two deadly terrorist attacks on “home soil”(if you consider London is home soil for many Aussies), one involving a hostage scene in an apartment in Melbourne a few suburbs away from me, and the other affecting Australians in London. These in the aftermath of the Manchester bombing.

Meanwhile, the first weeks of Ramadan, which Muslims believe is a month of mercy, forgiveness and blessings, have been under way. While I balk at the cruel irony and perhaps twisted intent of these events occurring at a time of prayer, renunciation and contemplation for many, I also want to resist getting lost in a sense of incredulity.

I have heard that Muslims believe the blessings of Ramadan extend beyond the Muslim community, so I’m taking this time as a chance to remember to pray and foster a sense of hope.

Like millions of Muslims in the last 10 days of Ramadan (16th to 25th of June I think), which are believed to hold extra power, I will make an extra effort to “stay true” to myself, and say a sincere prayer for progress, mercy, healing and truth.

Even when I have felt like God wasn’t one bit interested in my prayers or perhaps completely AWOL, praying has always, at the very least, put me in touch with my heart and helped me get out of my head. This brings a very powerful sense of self-compassion.

It can be a vulnerable feeling to confront one’s inner truth, the depth of one’s needs, hopes, heartaches, joys and desires, but I think if prayer can bring about self-awareness, self-love, and self-mercy, it is ultimately very strengthening. Especially if it leads you to feel more compassion for others.

Everyone has their own unique prayers and ways of praying, just as we all have unique gifts to share with the world. When another human being stays connected to their voice, their prayer, their pure link to the creative source within, this is a gift to the rest of us. It can even feel as though God is present in that person helping and guiding you — and I have felt this with many people including my atheist friends.

Atheist, agnostic or otherwise, we all make supplications of a kind at times. It’s a skill worth developing, especially when you get the sense that you’ve exhausted all your other options.

If only we all felt more compelled to pray. Especially now. This month, according to our Muslim brothers and sisters, contains “the night of power”. Thought to fall on the 27th night of Ramadan (That’s June 22nd. In fact, no-one is absolutely sure which night it is, encouraging persistent prayer in those last 10 days), it is described by the Prophet of Islam as “a night equal to a thousand months”.

This sounds like a pretty generous trade deal to me. Like the Catholic Jubilee of Mercy, this moment in time is potentially an extraordinary opportunity to reset. There is no doubt we all have prayers of the collective and personal kind that need answering.

Far from being a weak or desperate act, or a mere opiate for the masses, prayer takes courage and humility of the rawest kind. Especially as it can feel like there are times when God is not as clement and responsive as at other times. You can wonder, ‘why has the magic worn off?’ ‘why aren’t you responding this time?’

Perhaps our creator’s timeline is beyond our imaginations, shrinking long droughts of hope and mercy into mere seconds, and stretching out moments of bliss and hope into “a thousand months”.

I have experienced the direct and uncanny answering of prayers on occasions, and I say this knowing how categorically many non-religious people reject this notion as pure cray-cray. I accept this skepticism as natural and based on that person’s own experience, and a big part of me relates to it. However, I am also spurred on by the many people of strong character and sound judgement who have unshakable faith in the power of prayer. This is not to say these people don’t have times of doubt. Indeed it is their perserverance despite the ups and downs of faith that is impressive — and intriguing.

While I have had glimpses of the mercy that comes when a sincere and simple prayer is acknowledged, answered by God, I have also experienced the pain and sense of humiliation of prayers echoing into an abyss. If I am honest with myself, I think those pained prayers are perhaps not made from a place of pure surrender, vulnerability, openess and trust.

Any willingness to still have a go at praying is drawn from a quiet and mysterious faith built on those brief but unforgettable moments when I happened to pray in a moment of “power”. So I am not going to miss my chance on the 27th night of ramadan — or any other special dates on offer!

It certainly can’t hurt to try.

Afterthoughts:

I am highlighting the aspect of hope and light in the Islamic faith here because of the current context of violence being carried out in its name, which is creating a lot of fear, division and confusion. Adding to this tension are some extreme and inhumane political responses to terrorism that have emboldened perpetrators of anti-Muslim violence and distasteful, aggressive protests.

In this climate, it is my basic instinct to bridge the divide and seek wholeness through connection with that faith. I figure it is pointless and even damaging to hold on to negative views towards the religion of what is a massive and growing community of devout fellow human beings.

By humanising what has often been presented as the ultimate Other, I feel a bit more human and comfortable in this world. In being more familiar with the faith, its language, its philosophy, I feel less fear (but perhaps more outrage) towards the perpetrators of violence carried out for the sake of “Allah”.

Demystifying the Islamic faith, and learning about the vast, diverse and indeed complex nature of the Muslim world has reduced a lot of my own anxieties and prejudices.

The same response of indignation and anger towards Islamic terrorism (and also barbaric applications of Sharia in countries like Iran, Pakistan and Saudi Arabia) that compels some to perpetuate fear, mistrust and even apathy towards Muslims and Islam, compelled me in the opposite direction.

This ongoing process of educating myself about what is an unavoidable issue and glaring phenomenon of our time, has not cured me of concern for the safety of myself, my loved ones, this country and this world. What it has done is give me a greater feeling of courage and clarity in the face of the pure evils of terrorism, hate and despair.