Volunteering for peace (or a piece of fruit bun at any rate)

Some days are just crying out for slowness. Like today, where I felt that Sunday morning melancholoy, that sense of ‘what is the best way to spend my day?’, ‘what should I be squeezing in right now?’, how can I magic my room changed and life different and wardrobe more sensible and and..’ and it as overwhelming. So I think instead I will recognize the Sunday slow vibe and just poetter- - just float through a few hours paying attention to little things. Washing and sorting and putting away as a meditation on space, and I will feel calm as a result, and some things will be returned to their homes and not be in a mess on the floor. And then I go will go out as planned and meet my appointment, my few hours of Sunday afternoon volunteering which is my gesture of helping, of committing to something even though I have so many doubts about whether this is the best way to be helping, or the best organisation to help, or the best thing to do to help them, just doing it anyway because I feel more comfortable with a picture of my ilfe with some helping in it than not. Despite all the doubts about charity, philanthropy, the motives behind helping, the effectiveness of aid, the value of volunteering, tokenism, missionary zeal, opportunity cost in helping one thing over another (what is most ‘important’? how could you even answer such a ridiculously rational question on such a complex and interrelated planet? Ho could you do anything without knowing that?) whether the world would be better off without people buzzing around trying to make change, or whether change is inevitable and you may as well be in there helping shape it into something you like – all these questions of creeping apathy and cynacism which undermines and corrodes any sense of spontaneous caring and makes them become tarnished with fear of bad intentions and bad outcomes. It almost makes you think that maybe only market forces are what should shape the world – conveniently for markets.

So after I tidy my bedroom I will toodle off and meet up with maybe 6 others in a worn out and falling down terrace building in the City, one of those terrace buildings that will be familiar to those of you who have volunteered with activist groups lucky enough to have accommodation - or any of the Conservation Councils in Australia - that tend to be defined by pokey and mistmatched kitchens, a very odd assortment of mugs and cups, old computers, dingy brown synthetic carpet, small windows looking out onto city walls and letting in tired light that's already done it's rounds of illumination and is waiting for the end of shift, strange impermanent feeling bathrooms, the office fighting a slow avalanche of reports and old brochures, posters on walls from significant campaigns from eras gone by, and people in these spaces for the most part cheerfully oblivious to any maligned feng shui, but fueled by their commitment to do something useful they just get on with it. Which, as an aside, makes me think that maybe they are missing out of the more visually sensitive souls who would otherwise volunteer in their offices, those like me who would just as much like to paint the walls a chirpier colour, find someone to recarpet their floor with some nice chunky carpet tiles in a wool/hemp fibre, in a deep stone colour maybe, and gets some decent pot plants dotted around to give the air some life, as for the colour of the pots, mmm, maybe a red glazed pot to throw an accent of confidence and warmth and cheer everyone up, maybe a purple, to get us all thinking deeply and be careful in what we say – but no beige plastic mind, nothing flimsy and sad or worn out and tired, this office has to be bursting with life, so we will be…oh, can you help me lift this desk so I can hang the new blinds, phew, now that’s done, what were we all saying?

They also have an equally odd and mismatched group of volunteers coming together to, in this case, tackle the organisations strategic planning including maybe designing a slightly, ever so slightly, more formal structure so that people know with more confidence who is doing what, but we respect the intrinsic commitment to a non-heirarchical, inclusive loosely structured structure. It sounds like I’m taking the piss, but I’m not, all that stuff is really important. There’ll be lots of discussion and misunderstanding and thinly veiled frustrations, and drawing on butchers paper and going round and round the winding path to consensus. The main challenge I have is to be patient and wait – we’ll get there in the end and there’s no point pushing faster that we can collectively go. Just hang on to that 1980’s teachers mug with the chips and sip that tea and smile. Peace, man… I sometimes think that peace is a learnt attribute that we haven’t been role modeled very well, so it’s very hard to do, and we do it wonkily, like a baby taking first steps, and often land on our bums with a thump and a wail, despite our best efforts. Our collaborative inclusive respectful meeting ethic gets stretched to its limits when Brian wont shut up about the effing market stall issue, and reallly has he even grasped what the agenda fo this meeting is anyway, and what is with that stupid hat he is wearing, oh, oh and conny, does she have to talk in that bitchy voice all the time, that little duck bum mouth of hers is really starting to shit me... ooh, breathe, breathe... Wobble up from the floor, take another step.

If anyone is into textiles, speaking of carpets as I was, there is an exhibition opening soon at the Botanic Gardens of Sydney –in the Palm House – where the tutor from last week’s felt course is showing some of her work along with weavers, beaders, basket weavers, knitters and leatherworkers. I can’t guarantee that there will not be some hokey, folksy pieces in amongst it, but hey, that can be interesting too. Opens Jun 2nd and runs to the 13th open 10-4 daily.