Cartoon – pen & watercolour
Copyright 2008 Jean Burman
POVERTY – from the Latin pauper - 1. The state of being poor; want of the necessities of life; 2. scarcity or lack 3. inferiority
The difficulty for writers wishing to write with any degree of credibility on the topic of POVERTY… is that so few of us have truly experienced it. Not in the accepted sense of the word anyway. Sure we might have known what it was like to “do without” from time to time… but we have no real concept of true deprivation. So if a writer must “write what they know”… how then do we even begin to write about POVERTY?
I gave this quite a bit of thought before it occurred to me that… clearly… there are many ways to be impoverished.
POVERTY in the third world is a starving child… without a mother… clinging for life to an older sister who is almost too weak from hunger exhaustion and sickness to stand.
POVERTY in the first world is a privileged over indulged child with every possible material thing… who lacks the love and attention she needs to grow into a well adjusted adult and thrive emotionally.
Which is sadder I cannot say. But one thing is for certain.. both require our urgent loving attention and perhaps even… our intervention.
Iny (Irene) was a tall girl for her age. And skinny too. Early each morning she would bound out of bed… wash her face… and dress for school. Her dress was simple and home made… and she never ever wore shoes! She had eight brothers and sisters of whom she was the youngest but one. They lived in a simple house her father, a carpenter, had built… and there Ivy and George reared their brood with not much money… but love and attention in abundance.
Before school it was Iny’s job to run down to the local butcher’s shop to buy a pound of rump steak for breakfast. The butcher was a cheery old gentleman who affectionately nicknamed her “brolga” for her long legs and bounding energy.
“What will it be today Miss Rodger?” he would cheerfully ask, knowing the answer already. Iny would recite the order by heart before receiving the tightly wrapped parcel along with the one penny change. Then off she skipped to the grocery store to buy a lolly with the penny.
A pound of rump steak would be breakfast for the whole family. Sometimes her mother would miss out… especially if a friend or neighbour dropped by unexpectedly as she was serving it up.
The children all had chores. Some more than one. But a fair and equitable distribution of household duties was “divvied” up between the lot of them so that her Mother could sew for the family. Trousers for the boys… pretty dresses for the girls… even stiff starched broderie anglais hats for church. Washing day was Monday when all the clothing and bedsheets were boiled in the copper and hung out to dry… and the mattresses were aired on the fence. Tuesday was ironing day.
There was a household chore for every day of the week… and in this… Iny was not spared. Hers was the onerous task of scrubbing the bare wooden floor of the dunny which stood sentinel out in middle of the back yard. Of all the detestable jobs… this was the one most loathed of all… no doubt with good reason! (grin) However… Iny knew that if she wanted to eat, sleep and wear pretty home-made dresses… it was her lot in life to get on with the job… with a good stiff brush and a bucket of piping hot water with phenol!
Evenings were spent around the piano as friends and family gathered to sing and talk and laugh. It was a happy childhood filled with the blessings of a simple life within the loving embrace of family.
My mother often spoke of it… regaling us with stories of her enchanted childhood. She would often say… “We were poor… but I always felt rich… because I had my eight brothers and sisters!”
Blessings of the heart are so much more than money in the bank. The best that money can hope to buy is a degree of comfort. Beyond that… you can’t eat it, drink it, hug it, or take it with you in memories when you go.
In these times of financial uncertainty when all about us are wringing their hands with dire predictions of “the end of the world as we know it”… with promises of impending financial doom, starvation and ruination… it sometimes pays to look back on the lives of those who came before us to see how little they really needed… to live the life they loved.
It’s the times we think may break us… that so very often make us – JeanBurman 2008
A brand new day – daybreak over Dunk Island Aug 29
How amazing is the human heart!
Serious illness aside… it beats away relentlessly inside the chest across the course of our natural life.
It will keep on beating even though we might neglect it.
It will keep on beating even though we might ignore what it is telling us.
It will keep on beating even though it might ache.
And it will keep on beating long after it is broken.
It may skip a beat or two here and there… but that won’t make it stop.
It even beats without our knowing it… when we are fast asleep!
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It may become hardened by cynicism.
Yet it can be warmed by a simple act of kindness.
It can be stirred by enthusiasm.
And moved by the inspiration of a single thought.
It can endure disappointment.
And can be strengthened by conviction.
It may suffer terrible loss… but that won’t make it stop.
It will keep on beating… year after year after year.
No matter what.
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What man-made machine could ever do that?
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Through triumph and tragedy… the strength of the human heart… and the resilience of the human spirit shines through.
Tears welled in my eyes…
when I read how 41 year old Amalia Filloy handed up her young daughter Maria to firefighter Francisco Martinez for safekeeping… as she herself lay dying in the wreckage of Spanair flight JK5022… less than three weeks ago. Maria’s 14 year old sister was already dead. How strong this mother’s heart that it would not stop beating until she had secured the safety of her only remaining child. My thoughts turned to my son who had recently been in the place where she and her family were travelling to. I was thinking… there but for the grace of God go I. I wonder if I could have been so strong?
And again the other night…
as I heard the story of how a young man’s parents bravely bid goodbye to their 20 year old son and (as was his wish)… made way for the donation of his organs to four grateful recipients. Doujon Zammit’s life was cut short whilst holidaying with his mates on the Greek island of Mykonos where he was senselessly set upon, bashed and killed by a nightclub bouncer. His parents indescribable pain at the loss of their beautiful son in a faraway country… was soothed by the gift of life that Doujon himself had insisted upon.
When his mother and father travelled to Greece to meet the young man who received their son’s strong beating heart… Doujon’s mother took the man’s hand in hers… and placed it over his new beating heart. All three wept for the senseless loss of life that had [paradoxically] brought new hope and the promise of a new life to another such young man… living in this far off distant land.
Doujon may have died that day… but his heart beats on. And the love that his parents shared with four total strangers will keep their son’s memory alive. Still… their own weary hearts will beat laboriously on… through grief and sadness and irreparable loss.
As a mother… I pray that my heart will never be tested in this cruel way. Hearts never mend… but they do go on. Even when we might not want them to. I have sometimes heard parents say when they have lost (or are losing) a child… that they wish it could have been them. My own parents said it. I know what they meant.
It seems far too easy to become caught up in the trivial day to day issues and struggles that besiege us all. Sometimes it’s good to remember what’s really important… and to give thanks for that. Life might not be perfect but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s not meant to be. Besides… it’s all we have!
Our hearts will keep on beating (no matter what)… until our time is up. Until then… we might take a lesson from that heart of ours… and never ever give up.
May the beat go on!
Sixty Minutes Part 1
Sixty Minutes Part 2
Cartoon Copyright 2008 Jean Burman
“Obama Unplugged”
Pen & Watercolour 12″ x 9″
Like most of us… I watched with interest (and considerable empathy) from the sidelines last week as Senator Barack Obama struggled to maintain his equilibrium in the wake of the media fallout from his association and past close friendship with the right Reverend Jeremiah Wright.
Regardless of your politics… it would be difficult not to feel some degree of empathy for a fellow human being under siege from all sides. There is no doubt that he’s in an unenviable position. Damned if you do… damned if you don’t. But this is the way of politics.
Watching the antics of the past week unfolding in the political arena… I began to identify with the exasperation etched on Obama’s face… and it occurred to me that he and I might just have had a thing or two in common last week… and that surprising as it might seem…
Blogging is a lot like politics! [It sure has taught me many things!]
Bloggers (like politicians) must have thick skin.
Bloggers (like politicians) must be prepared to “hear the words they’ve spoken twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools” (to borrow heavily from Kipling! LOL)
Bloggers (like politicians) understand the need to diplomatically “handle” comments that are made (even when some views expressed are diametrically opposed to our own)
Bloggers (like politicians) also e-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y come to understand that the person in “diametrical” opposition… doesn’t necessarily “have it in for them”… they are simply attempting to use someone else’s platform to pump their own agenda [if Wright had wanted the limelight he should have gone into politics himself]
Bloggers (like politicians) know how things can get out of hand… and how in the end… the only reasonable thing to do is to reluctantly and diplomatically put a stop to it. [Obama did this week... and sadly... I am about to]
First though… I’d like to thank each and every one of you who visit my blog in the spirit in which it was intended… offering insights and generously giving encouragement and support for my humble enterprise here. You cannot know the good you do in raising my spirits and encouraging me to blog on!
My blog is my gift to you… the reader.
But remember… it’s a free service [grin] … dredged from the depths of my heart! It is not without fault… (no-one’s perfect). And you don’t have to agree with it. But I mean no harm to anyone. I wish only good for the earth… and good things for the people who walk upon it.
What I ask in return… is that your (very welcome) comments remain relevant to the topic… and more importantly… do not overly contradict the writer! It is understood that everyone has a differing point of view… and I love to hear it. I would be the first to acknowledge that our views should never be static… and to be healthy… should “bend and meld” under the influence of new information.
But… I have no wish for my blog to become my whipping post either. A place where my viewpoint is routinely contradicted and I am forced to defend each word. Where on earth is the fun in that?
Besides… this blog is first and foremost about the craft of writing. Clearly I am still learning… (aren’t we all?)
It is also about the art (and the cartoons)… which I have come to enjoy doing more and more. The issues raised are naturally those that are close to my heart… the things I care about and want to share… but they are not the most important thing. When it’s all said and done… they are just the vehicle for the writing itself… and almost always an afterthought for the cartoons!
Now… please don’t make of this that you should stop commenting. On the contrary… I would like nothing better than for even more people to join in the discussion adding richness to the mix. But please remember I am just a human person. The pays nothing to write home about and the hours are long. So be kind okay? [grin]
I hope you enjoy the cartoon… 
cartoon Copyright Jean Burman 2007
I was saddened this week by the sensationalised revelations of Mother Teresa’s longstanding crisis of faith. Don’t get me wrong… I was not saddened because she had experienced a crisis of faith… (and had long believed she had been abandoned by her God)… but saddened because the world got to know about it!
It is an unfortunate fact that people… being what they are… will now more than likely put whatever self serving spin on it they like and as is often the case… the truth may be the first and ultimate casualty.
One overlooked truth of course is… there are certain things that should remain sacrosanct between a human soul and her God… (which is how she had wanted it)… but this sentiment was apparently not shared by her church!
But now that the cat is out of the bag… the atheists and agnostics alike will no doubt take the opportunity to see her revelations as confirmation that God does not exist. The deeply religious will see it as proof that God does indeed exist… arguing “how else could this amazing woman “hold out” for so long in her good works… without losing her deep faith in a God she was (apparently) unable to reach?”
Perhaps the truth can be found somewhere in the middle. Or perhaps it can never be found at all… as the true intimacy of her tormented thoughts have passed on with her… (it would be hoped) into the “fulfillment” of eternal life.
Whilst I think it is contemptible that her confessions have been exposed against her wishes to the misinterpretation of the masses… I find it strangely intriguing that I am unable to resist the urge to examine some of the questions her confessions raised for me. (So as you will see… I am as guilty as the rest! LOL)
Whilst most of us haven’t (and more than possibly could not have) lived a life so totally devoted and dedicated to humanity as Mother Theresa’s was… I suspect that many of us may understand (even if only slightly) how she might have felt… and may even have experienced some small degree of parallel in our own dealings with God… (whomever we perceive the entity to be).
Bizarre as it may seem… I see a parallel here for artists too! And I guess… for every vocation where someone invests their heart into their work… this may well be the case. But in particular for the creative artist… the road is long… and the rewards can seem “thin on the ground”.
Not only are artists attempting to attract the attention of a fickle (sometimes) uninformed audience… but even if the audience does notice the work… rarely is it able to acknowledge the “artistic voice” in a language it can understand.
Monetary reward is one thing for the working artist… but always… always there is the deep intangible yearning for something more. It’s that something more that has sometimes driven artists throughout millenia to desperation and despair. Artists are often their own harshest critics… playing the game by a set of rules that others find difficult to interpret. The bar is high… and becoming ever higher… the vocal critics have the majority… and an apathetic voiceless (and dare I say it “artless”) audience can often appear to be sitting it out on the fence without an opinion (okay… a little harsh maybe! *wink* LOL)
Don’t get me wrong… I am not for a moment suggesting that the plight of the struggling artist can be compared to the selfless struggle that Mother Thesesa faced over a lifetime of saving the poor of Calcutta. On the contrary… I am simply observing the parallel in order to better understand her torment… and hopefully find some common ground for the rest of us.
I am wondering then… if Mother Theresa’s deep spiritual longing could have been… in essence… the unquenched thirst for (not only affirmation that she was on the right track)… but also… the ultimate recognition for a job well done? She certainly didn’t need this recognition (in her case… spiritual fulfillment) to carry on… but perhaps a positive spiritual endorsement from an “available” God could have made the journey far easier to bear.
But maybe that was not God’s intention. Maybe he trusted her more than anyone else to never give up… no matter how hard it got… and despite the perceived withdrawal of “spiritual” recognition and perhaps even because of it… she did even more good works!
Call me way too simplistic… but could it be that somewhere in this small parallel… there is a God-sent lesson for us all?
Just thinking…
