Letting go of the big, to make space for the small

Why, in the grand scheme of things, tiny actions matter

(This voiceover is an audio version of the newsletter below. As always, it’s unedited, and today you will probably hear Ben’s phone ring at some point. If you like/need to listen to these posts I hope you enjoy it anyway!)

Hello mates,

Before I get into today’s letter, I just want to check in with you. See how you’re doing. I didn’t really know how to start back here given what’s happening in the world at the moment, and checking in feels like the right thing to do.

Personally, I’m just trying to hold space for multiple things to be true at the same time. Sadness and awe and exhaustion and beauty and fear and love and hope. They all exist in me right now. I can feel each of them. It’s confusing and uncomfortable and overwhelming and utterly and totally human. I don’t know what to do with it, so I just let it be.

I guess I want to say that if you’re feeling similarly, you’re not alone.

💚💚

Letting go

As most of you know, I write to school terms, and try to focus each term on a different theme (let’s use the word ‘focus’ fairly loosely though, shall we?) Last term was self-care, and this term I find myself wanting to write about the idea of letting go.

Letting go of stories and half-truths and fear. Letting go of standards and expectations and toxic ideals. Letting go of stuff and shoulds and excess. But also letting go of how things used to be, which really means forging new ways. New relationships, new ideas, new motivations, new stories, new tools.

It feels like both subtraction and addition. And I think it’s coming at a good time. Even though I am fresh off a break, I’m feeling more than a little heart-sore.

The world feels huge and complex and cruel and divided and violent. I know it’s also beautiful and awe-inspiring and filled with love and connection and billons of human beings trying their best. But when I look at it as a whole thing, it feels like too much. It takes me back to the overwhelm I felt during 2020 and 2021, when it seemed like the world was ending.

The way forward for me then was to shrink my field of vision. To reduce the scope of my attention. I didn’t stop caring about what was happening in the world (sometimes, to be honest, I wish I could) but I stopped looking at it so closely. I stopped reading the news so much, I stopped using social media almost completely, I focused much more on my home, my family, my own shit, my community, my circle, my words, my actions. And gradually the sense of impending doom lifted slightly and I realised that the tiny things were the big things.  

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve found myself in a similar place. Hurting for the hurt in the world. Laying awake in bed worrying about what we’re stealing from our children. Worrying about what we’ll leave them with. War and division and lies and greed. Short-term, me-first, fear-based thinking. And along with that has come the heaviness of knowing so little of it is in my control.

Ironically though, this is also what brought hope back to me — the thing that’s opening me up again. Letting go of the things I can’t control has helped me embrace everything I can.

The actions, the conversations, the choices in how we treat our loved ones, our homes, our communities, the trees and plants and animals around us. In learning to listen and stay open and act out of love instead of fear. These are all within our control. And by embracing their power, they become something far greater. They become the big things.

Three tiny cases in point:

1.    Last spring, I was driving into town and spotted a tiny duckling stranded in the middle of the road, cars whizzing past it on either side. I pulled over, chucked a u-ey (U-turn, for my non-Australian mates), put on my hazard lights and stopped my car in the middle of the road. I walked out into traffic, hands up, hoping I wouldn’t get hit by a car and hoping even more that the duckling wouldn’t run. I didn’t and she didn’t. I picked her up and walked over to a hedge where I could hear other ducks quietly quacking. She began to chirp, and, in what I can only assume was her way of saying thank you, crapped all over my hands. I put her under the hedge with her family and ran back to my car. Someone driving in the opposite direction had stopped too, gave me a wave and called out, “Thank you!” before driving on.

2.    David Farrier wrote an article a few months ago about how he had rescued an injured hummingbird in Los Angeles. He kept it and fed it every two hours, trying to nurse her back to health. Eventually, he passed her on to a hummingbird sanctuary, where she was rehabilitated and released back into the wild.

3.    I recently saw an IG video about a woman who found an injured bumblebee and took it home to care for it. She picked flowers and gave it sugar water and created a home for it for the many weeks it survived.

In the grand scheme of things, these don’t seem to matter much. Saving a duck or a bird or a bee is not going to change the world (thought it almost certainly changed the world for them). And yet, I firmly believe these form the foundation of the grand scheme.

Caring for each other, taking a moment to connect, showing gratitude. Asking questions, listening, opening up. They all matter. And they can all help alleviate the heaviness that comes from living in a world operating mostly out of our control.

Sure, these tiny acts may end up counting for nothing. But they also might just end up meaning everything. And for me, that’s hope, and it’s enough.

It’s a yes from me

I went back and forward on whether to write about the Voice referendum here, knowing that many of you reading this are not from Australia. But I hope all my non-Australian readers forgive the quick mention of it, because it’s too important for me not to. (If you want to know what it’s about, here’s a fact-checked explainer.)

Personally, I’m voting yes. I’m voting yes for constitutional recognition of our First Nations peoples. I’m voting yes because Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people should absolutely have input into decisions that affect their lives. I’m voting yes for a new way and a better future. I’m voting yes because it symbolises hope and love and a step forward. It’s imperfect, of course (what isn’t?), but it’s still a step forward.

And for those of you who have a different view, I accept that. Each of us will base our decisions on our own experience and understanding of the world. Current global events highlight how fortunate we are to be able to peacefully disagree and for the most part, I think most of us want the same thing: Safety for those we love. Fairness. Equity. Hope. There’s something worth exploring in that common ground.

I’ve spent the past few weeks feeling impotent, but in the spirit of letting go and moving forward, I realised that I can’t control much, and I don’t have a whole lot to offer. But I do have my words.

I wrote this poem on 26th January, 2021, as I thought about the symbolism of Australia Day. But as we head to the polls this weekend, it feels just as, if not more relevant, now.

Australia Day

This country
my country, but not
My Country.
I live here.
I know her seasons,
her heat
her fires
her cold, damp Augusts
and frost-crunchy grass.
I know her cries—
the screech of the white cockatoos,
the mournful call of the black,
midnight delights of fruit bats
feasting on figs outside my window
and the summer chorus of cicadas
in what remains of the rainforest.

But she does not live in my bones.
Her stories are inaudible to my open ears.
I am apart.
Kept so by the gaping wound
that scars our country,
that weeps, unhealed.
A deep hurt
injured anew every time
my people (My People)
dodge and minimise and ignore.
Every time we shrug or celebrate
in the face of pain.
Even when we see it with open eyes.
Even when we hear it with open ears.
The chasm is birthed and rebirthed
here—
in not caring enough to change.
In guilt, inhumanity,
shame
at our inability to change the past.
But to deny a better future
takes that wound and forces it open
over and over and over.

My People (my people)
are who can close it.
The ancient ones
the resilient ones
the ones whose bones
thrum with stories of this land
have done more than enough.
They have survived.
Passed words from ear to ear,
bone to bone.
My people, it is time.
To listen, to learn,
to let our own bones fill with
stories shared
and wisdom offered
and love of country
(our country)
Before our bones turn to dust
and our children inherit
this terrible distance
and the chance to close it.

If it resonates for you, please feel free to share it. (You can share it to IG here, or via email below)

In much the same way I didn’t know how to start today’s letter, I’m having trouble ending it. Maybe I’m tired, or maybe it’s not a great word day. Or maybe, sometimes, things don’t have a neat little summation. Maybe I just have to hope you’re picking up what I’m putting down. And maybe that hope is enough.

Sending you all the love, and I’ll be back in your inbox on Sunday with the next edition of The Dawdler.
Brooke xx