This year I joined an online course offered by Margaret Wheatley.
Designed to dovetail with the second edition of her book, ‘Who Do We Choose To Be’.
Streaming live from her home in Utah at an awkward 2am AEST.
Meg generously hosted three additional Australian sessions.
The first comprised Meg and me. Two UTS postgraduate students of systems change and leadership.
And Margie, a Sister of Mercy from Melbourne.
In introducing myself, I lightly mentioned the Formation for Leadership series.
With roots in the US human potential field of mid last century.
Meg politely curious.
Our group discussion brought to life her mission in behalf of warriors for the human spirit.
What stood out was Margie’s straightforward voice.
As we closed, she spoke
“Thorin it’s been wonderful to hear Joyces name again and to find you continuing that work. I was a member of her original group in Adelaide, nearly 40 years ago”
Talk about unexpected!
To meet in this way, infinitely improbable yet perhaps inevitable.
Margie gifting me a considerable credibility boost.
And new friendship.
Sisters of Mercy
In appreciation, Leonard Cohen composed a tribute song.
To my right I see a man undressing, ready for a swim.
Brave.
He sees me, grins and indicates he’s going in.
A travellers accent.
Cold sky, hard wind, rough breaking surf.
I wouldn’t swim here, now.
He steps onto the wet sand. I hesitantly ask.
– You’re a strong swimmer? – No. But I won’t go out far. – Do you know where the rip is? – No. But I saw surfers going in here yesterday. – Surfers often enter the rip, to ride it out past the break. – Oh.
The first wavelet rushes up his legs.
The next, riding the first, gushes past his shorts.
He stumbles. The pull of the water undercuts the sand beneath his feet.
Concerned, I call to him. He turns and I see agreement.
Another broken wave hits from behind.
Firmly gripped hands is my strong sense, though we are well apart.
Retreat up the steep beach.
My shoes are filled with coarse wet sand and jeans are wet to the knees. Later walking the beach, I ponder whether I’d wrongly impinged upon his free will. Or maybe saved a life.
Title adapted from a short story, “The Life You Save May Be Your Own” by Flannery O’Connor, 1955.