Bonded by Conflict, Freed by Grace
In almost perfect unison, pairs of eyes turn towards the surface that will soon absorb the combatant's sweat, where inadvertent causes of anxiety roam. In the background is a dull chant, more frequently associated with a crowd on New Year's Eve, 6, 5, 4, 3; but it is weeks, not seconds until the finish line. The final verdict. I have walked around the stadium, paying little attention to the game. My only impression of the contest is based on the noise from each side’s supporters. Some exude great confidence in their team, others conviction in the folly of their opponents. Yet others meander sheepishly and downcast toward their seats, their internal state perhaps shaped by their team’s likelihood of success or more likely, the internal turmoil they, I, we constantly wrestle with.
Before today’s official commencement of the campaign, from the little I have observed, I have been profoundly disappointed with the quality of the debate.
A few weeks ago, I visited my sister. I woke up on a sun-soaked Sydney morning and prepared for the day ahead. I was the last to leave the apartment and due to my uncertainty, I asked how to lock the door. However, the door resembled one I was relatively familiar with, so I pushed the button, shut the door, ensured it was locked, and off we went. We were to get breakfast, pace around leisurely in search of a quiet spot for lunch, then like a boomerang trace our way back either by foot or, depending on our energy levels consider the use of public transport. The day was splendid, the temperature within the perfect 17-23 degree range. The walkways, like a pub on a non-Friday weeknight without a Matildas game, were not particularly crowded. A constant periodic breeze, like windscreen wipers in a drizzle whisked away each bead of sweat. The food was good. The company was exceptional.
We returned using public transport. Like a father who begins to value convenience over authenticity when selecting a Christmas tree, our light source changed from natural to artificial. An evening dinner with friends rapidly approached. We stood outside the apartment door, the 90-degree wrist rotation preceded by the insertion of the key was followed by a twist of the door handle however, the door did not open. Perhaps another try would do the trick, but like swimming perpendicular to the shore while caught in a rip, we seemed to be doing something wrong. The door was locked and we did not have the key. The question I asked was not answered. The button I pushed should not have been pushed. Both parties had a right to be angry. Why didn’t she answer my question? Why didn’t he just shut the door normally? Why did he have to push the button?
But no voice was raised. An angry shouting match did not arise. The grass was dry, a pressure gradient existed, and a spark was present, but no fire was ignited. Each understood their error. Each knew that the other did not harbour malevolent intent.
The locksmith was called. They eventually arrived and remedied my error. “I have been very busy today,” they said in response to our query. “That is good news for you because it means many people have made the same mistake”.
What I have seen in this debate is a conflict between two opposing and irreconcilable ideas; Yes and No. The conflict has felt personal, not because I am a member of the First Nations, nor am I particularly wedded to either side. It has felt personal because the conflict between the two sides and its irreconcilable nature reflects the conflict within me. The clash between my preference for conformity and my desire to be free. On the one hand to have a good respectable job, ascend the ranks, pay off a mortgage, afford basics as the cost of living rises, start a family, be liked, and get the new iPhone. On the other hand, to write, explore, dance wildly, laugh uncontrollably, create pure art, wander, and get lost. Normally, I opt for one while suppressing the other. I display a calm and sensible self during work hours and reserve expressions of freedom for after-hours or work-free weekends. Ideally, we are told to fuse both aspects of ourselves mostly by finding jobs that accommodate both, that provide for our practical needs while pursuing our deep purpose. We look for partners and spouses who do the same, the attractive and intelligent individual who is just as free or constrained as we are. But I have been doing it wrong. Perhaps the point is not the side I pick, not whether I am yes or no. The point is to dwell in the in-between. To appreciate the fact that I have practical desires that may or may not be fulfilled and sitting beside them is my desire to be free, to allow my soul to sing a song of its own even though my microphone may not be turned on. It is to dwell in the in-between, the ambiguity, the unknown, the contradiction. To be courageous. Because when I do so, I gain a sense of empathy toward myself. An appreciation that I may not and oftentimes cannot have it all. This realisation brings a degree of sadness but also nurtures a sense of kindness, generosity, and gratitude that when I channel toward myself, blunts my sadness and waters the seeds of joy.
If I am experiencing this internal war, this tug between conformity and desire, practicality and freedom. If I feel the resultant sadness, perhaps my housemate does too, my neighbour, my sister, my parents, the person on television, the voice on the radio, and the next person on my feed. Perhaps, this conflict and the resultant sadness is spread throughout our community like butter on warm toast. And if it is in me and those around me and we make up the nation, perhaps it is at least a component of who we are and what animates aspects of our character as a nation, state, city, family, person.
If I feel sadness and afford myself kindness and generosity, I should give the same to my housemate, neighbour, sister, parents, the person on television, the voice on the radio, and the next person on my feed.
The conflict we see between the two sides on a national level is a macrocosm of the conflict within every one of us. Some of us have chosen a side and at times we have to and shortly, we will be required to do so. However, I suggest that until then, we dwell in the in-between, appreciate the irreconcilable nature of the question at hand, dwell within the contradictions we confront, and through quiet appreciation and patient contemplation deepen our reservoirs of empathy, sympathy, generosity, and kindness such that we view the thoughts and actions of ourselves and our fellow citizens with curiosity and benevolence, as my sister viewed me, like I viewed my sister as the locksmith viewed us; not because we deserved it but because I am her, she is me, they are us and we are them. Bonded by conflict, freed by grace.
You are the sister. Will you answer the question? You are the brother. Will you push the button? You are the locksmith. Will you reassure them? You are a sibling. Will you erupt in a self-righteous indignation?
Walk into the polling station when the countdown reaches zero and vote from a place of kindness, generosity, and curiosity.
Bonded by conflict, freed by grace.