The Attachment Read online

  Reading them now, I can see how you must have felt them to be an attack, particularly when you write that you find it hard to understand how I can make a distinction between you and the Church.

  I do make a distinction, I guess. I see you as my friend—person and not priest. Naïve, perhaps, but I’ve always tried to do that in my relationships—it’s why I have many friends with opposing political viewpoints—but that does not give me permission to forget that you are a priest, or to be careless of that fact.

  I admire the work you do, Tony—the good counsel, the open door, the humour, the perpetual readiness to serve and the empathy of your ministry; your big heart, shoulders and ears. And of course, they are the result of the experience and training of your vocation as much as your character.

  Truth is, I’ve not had cause to name my attitudes on any of these subjects for years, because the Church no longer figures in my daily life. It was a part of my past. And when I say ‘the Church’, I should explain that I mean all organised religions. Yes, I grew up Catholic, but stopped having regular contact with churches when the choice was mine to make.

  Why?

  Well, that’s almost as complicated as asking why you’re a priest. But here goes . . .

  My parents divorced back in the early 1960s, when I was a fair-haired tot who would not have understood that love can change. I just knew that something broke. The word ‘divorce’ was a whisper that followed my parents across the playground, but I didn’t immediately connect it to Mum’s absence from tuckshop duty.

  By the time I was Head Girl (yes, afraid so) at a Catholic ladies’ college, I was more aware of the subtleties of double standards. Schooled to admire the nuns who ran a thriving business—our school—without men, I also accepted I would never see one of those formidable females celebrating the Mass. Told that my teenage body was a temple, I also came to see it as a site of temptation.

  Perhaps it was this history of confused standards and messages that made me drift away, because I was always searching for meaning. I wanted signs and sacredness, but I didn’t want them at a cost to my sense of worth. That was fragile enough as a woman trying to make a way through the world on an equal footing with men.

  I looked outside Catholicism to other religions and spiritual disciplines, but frankly, most of them had women as vassals or foot-soldiers, and I, daughter of a woman who’d encouraged me to believe I was equal to any bloke, found that disappointing at best, infuriating at worst.

  Oddly enough, the way I see it, some atheists aren’t a whole lot better on that score either! I’ve often found Mr Dawkins to be a strident, testosterone-heavy voice of certainty, too.

  Ironically, given my opinionated swipe at the Catholic Church, the thing I find most difficult about many atheists and believers is their posture of certainty. Let me say here that I most definitely do not see that in you. Our friendship has taught me that you strive to see more than 50 shades of grey nuance.

  I bear no anger to those who live peaceably within any religion—Buddhism, Islam or Zoroastrian. Really I don’t, Tony. I say again—I envy them, sometimes. I remain grateful for the Catholic teachings I received, and am awed by much of the work done by contemporary Catholics, particularly for refugees. I mourn for Catholics who are confronting the abuse saga, and I am proud to call you my friend—very proud!—not least because I think your work is vital and inspiring.

  But I’ve also spent years feeling that my existence was, in some never-quite-defined way, secondary to my male counterparts, and that was exacerbated by the Church’s hierarchies. I’ve also had to battle the sense that my divorced mother was ‘fallen’—that there was shame attached to that love-filled dynamo.

  Now I realise I’ve written you a long letter about the institution of the Church, and not about you. Apologies again. Interestingly, I see that word ‘institution’ as one of the big differences between us. As you said, you work inside one, and I work outside. Not always by choice, and of course, from time to time I am inside walls, but essentially I’m not part of any organisation.

  Occasionally a gatekeeper invites me to enter, but mostly I’m looking in through a grille. I accept that is a narrow view, but I do observe the effects of organisations out in the world, and many of them are not welcoming to me as a woman—be they corporate, government or religious.

  We’ve got a female prime minister and I can’t say I feel thrilled about the way she is being treated. Whether she is doing anything different to her male counterparts is not really the point for me—it is just a relief that we know it is now possible for an Australian woman to hold that office. I suspect there are female corporate titans who are just as tough as any bloke—but let’s have more. Until we are normalised, we will always be the second sex.

  Again—apologies for hurt. I hope you know that would never be my intention. I value our friendship too highly. It was thoughtlessness and haste. I should have written by hand. Remember the lessons of the snail, Ailsa.

  I too hope the conversation can continue.

  Ailsa

  PS Love the Burghardt, though I have a suspicion that, with the exception of the last line, it could be said by a passionate insider from many communities or institutions. You could even try substituting the word ‘family’ for ‘Catholic Church’ and see what I mean.

  By the way, I prefer the fish in the net image to your picture of the Church as a little old lady. And I agree, it is better than my bully.

  Ailsa,

  I find it hard to come up with any killer argument to convince you of where I am coming from in answer to your comments about women and religion in a brief email.

  For now, I suppose a key phrase is ‘the way I see it’. I think I subscribe to the view that we don’t see things as THEY are. We see them as WE are. That our past experiences colour how we receive information—particularly, may I say, experiences of hurt or other distress. I quite happily concede that my perspective is that of a male who has worked for over 50 years ploughing this field—yes, a perspective coloured by my date of birth, the unusual workplace I occupy, the eccentric people I mix with (not exempting present company, I assure you), the conversations I engage in, the material I read, my particular sense of humour—all of which has me see the world the way I see it.

  To be aware of one’s limited perspective does not entirely free one from being blind to certain issues, of course, but I fondly believe it helps.

  Ant

  Hello again Ant,

  We do argue from different perspectives, and not just gender and age.

  But I have learned from this exchange, as I do with so many of our emails. From my side of our boundary fence, let me say that I’m grateful for your preparedness to find time to explain your positions. Would that our leaders—political and religious—might take a leaf from your book.

  Ailsa

  Ailsa,

  A final rumination!

  I’m sure you’ll enjoy a story I heard once about male prejudice, although I fear I am simply loading your guns. It comes from the 19th century history of the suffragette movement. The husband of one activist, on hearing that women were to be given the vote, and knowing that his world was falling apart, was heard to say: ‘Where are we going to draw the line?’

  To which his wife replied:

  ‘Who gave you the pencil?’

  Happy days.

  Ant

  PS And I promise you I didn’t even pick up a pencil.

  Antonio!

  Just went walking to clear the head after our exchanges, and saw an echidna swimming. He was blowing bubbles! Really. I thought of you, swimmer.

  And when he heaved himself from the water, he got right on with his job. I was fascinated by his commitment to task. Find ants. Find ants. Find ants.

  Well, I have found an Ant, too. And he makes me laugh, even when part of me feels murderous about his views. Loved the suffragette story. Thanks. I will be holding my pencils very close.

  Must end here, but I suspect that we
have located the ‘labels’ that we must be mindful of—cleric and feminist.

  Back to the big smoke I go, carrying the image of a chortling echidna. Maybe that will stave off my nerves about the McGirr/Garner event.

  Buen caminooooo!

  A

  Dear Ailsa,

  Like the image of an echidna—lots of spikes, likes to burrow, loves to swim. Me to a tee!

  By the way, I meant to tell you that I saw Sandy last night in her play. Loved it. Four talented young actors and the towering figure of Sandy. Her timing is impeccable. Interesting and hugely entertaining.

  Travel safely.

  Tony

  Dear Tony,

  I’m nursing a mighty non-alcohol-related adrenaline hangover.

  I want so much to describe last night to you, but it was all love and fellow-feeling. That experience doesn’t just slide onto the page, sadly. Some moments . . .

  When Helen Garner arrived, she reached across to say hello, and I remember thinking, ‘This is my great hero squeezing my hand.’

  I read Mr McGirr and felt a wash of gratitude for my years in the theatre, which gave me the skills to honour other people’s words. I heard remarkable tales of people’s relationship to story. I read my intro and managed not to cry or shake.

  Then Helen read. She spoke about the physical act of writing, of pens and backaches and ink-stains and things solid and real and, as always, true.

  Bruno, who makes these nights happen, spoke of his father, a Sicilian gardener who never really ‘got’ what Bruno did as a teacher. Bruno says that now, ironically, he sees himself as a gardener, just like his dad. Last night he harvested.

  You will be happy to know that you were present, Antonio! A lady told me her husband was at our conversation, and that he lies in bed every night with my book, chortling away or sighing at passages of my journey. She said her husband loved our talk, and she watched it on video afterwards. She wished she’d been able to come, not least because—‘That Tony Doherty is rather sexy!’

  Now I have to tell you I was taken aback at this full and frank admission, but she kept on glowing over you. I’m not sure it’s wise to report her comments. But she was a fan of yours, and, as you can see, last night spread its arms wide, extending them to Rose Bay.

  It’s going to be thirty-eight degrees down here today. I think you have something similar. I have two meetings this morning, and then will be locked away with the computer, sweating my way through a list that is stopping me from getting back to the book.

  And tomorrow . . .

  My friend Louise, a boundless spirit, will drive me up to our shack in her car (I do love to be a passenger), and we will walk and walk for three days. And talk. She has been away for two months, meditating and restoring, and I’ve ached for her like a missing limb. We’ve been down every tunnel imaginable in our friendship—enchantment and consolidation and way beyond. We’ve faced dragons in each other, and helped to slay them. I love her fiercely and in a way that can only exist when you have, yes, deepened. And I have three days of her.

  On Sunday she will return to town and my younger sister, Amanda, will come up to spend Sunday night. We will walk on Monday morning.

  A feast. Can’t believe I deserve it, but I’ll take it and be glad.

  I hope you may have equal joy in your days, Antonio. I hope you slept long and deep. I seem to be in a cycle of brief sleep just now, but there’s so much waking loveliness, why miss it? Yesterday, on the train into the city, I thought I might cry because I was so happy for no reason—and then suddenly I was heartbroken for my mother and the many friends who have died and not known third or fourth or fifth decades here on the planet, heart beating and sun shining and love overflowing.

  I must stop. I’ve written four letters so far, and now I’d better go and tidy the house and get ready to appear sane at my meetings.

  I hope that life/work is fulfilling for you, and that the harbour shimmers at its most sparkly. I hope you are peaceful and productive. And that you are cool! Physically, I mean. We know you are cool in every other way. That lady last night would have nothing less!

  Hasta pronto.

  Ailsa

  Ailsa,

  Your first words about the hangover left me concerned that something went wrong—like forgetting Helen Garner’s name or making highly ambiguous mistakes in reading the McGirr material. Sheer relief to find that the exact opposite was the case. A night pressed down, shaken together and flowing over. The wonder and delight of artists tasting the juices of life and conversation. Your description lifted my spirits.

  I hate this copycat behaviour of mine—but I have a secret literary relationship with H. Garner. A national treasure and you are not the only puppy dog in love with her.

  Three days of walking with Louise sounds dreamy. You have an extraordinary capacity, if I may be so bold to say, to live your life to the full—you inspire me. Makes my daily 30-minute plunge into the harbour scarcely able to be remarked upon.

  Thanks for the precious opportunity of hearing the detail of last night. You’re a most generous friend.

  Happy days.

  Tony

  PS Hope you got the address of the fan who considered me (can I say the word without blush?) ‘sexy’. Tell her the fan club meetings are held in a phone box in Old South Head Rd on months that have 32 days in them.

  But please don’t think I am anything but tickled pink.

  T—

  I had to laugh just now. I read your comment about me living life to the full just after I had taken a breather on the couch to eat a salad and do a Sudoku (addict!). Before I’d finished either, I told myself to get up and get to the computer because I was wasting time.

  My challenge is in sitting still and NOT doing. It’s a problem. Because I know deep in my bones that all this wonder can be snatched away at any second, I feel compelled to gobble it up. I’ve had too many best beloveds leave without warning with lives unlived, so I know it can happen, and I rush at it all. But sitting still is a grace, and I’m trying to learn more of it. Louise is a Vipassana practitioner and can sit for hours. I admire it so. I think it was Blaise Pascal who wrote that all the evil in the world can be traced to our inability to sit still in a room. If that is true, I am a wicked perpetrator of said sin. I am still trying just to slow down!

  Here’s a lovely thing. In the time it has taken me to write a blog post and this email, a new baby came into the world—she will bear the name of my grandmother Elsie—and one of my favourite ‘godsons’ has come through surgery and is sitting in hospital eating sushi. Louise writes that she has stewed rhubarb as a treat for tomorrow. My little sis, Amanda, writes that she went to the Immigration Museum and looked up Piper in one of the record books. There she found a history of our mob. One of them was a Thomas Piper, who became a Christian pastor. It was said of him that he was ‘a fervent preacher often blending keen logic and holy passion with remarkable effect.’ I wonder if I would have liked him. Anyway, what a swag of email. I’m almost afraid to ask what is happening outside my mailbox!

  Alright, pilgrim. That’s all the break I’ve earned. Trust you’re not as hot up there as we are in Melbourne, but equally delighted by the way the world turns.

  A x

  Ailsa,

  I smile every time you address me as pilgrim. Has the ring of a John Wayne movie about it!

  7 am.

  Just come still dripping from the harbour, every cell and artery wide awake. Just as well, because one of my swimming mates raised the ever-controversial topic of celibacy as I emerged from the water. Sometimes I have a private bet with myself when going to dinner with friends, about the amount of time it will take before it comes up in conversation. But at my favourite beach . . .!

  Anyway, I’m going to risk another small earthquake from you and open it up again. In the last few years, the link between celibacy and the general disgust about paedophilia has taken top billing. Understandable, of course. The most widespread opinion claims that
sexual abuse of children by celibate priests is easy to fathom. Eliminate the obligatory celibacy and you eliminate the abuse. QED.

  Well . . . I’m not so sure. I suppose I would say that, wouldn’t I? But I have an aversion to easy targets, an even greater aversion to over-simple solutions.

  In this post-Freudian, post-modern, wonderfully enlightened world, sometimes I get the impression that some think they know more about the mystery of human sexuality than in fact they do. Even the research into the general causes of paedophilia is pretty thin. The issue of priests abusing children, I suspect, has many causes: and I believe that the hard work has yet to be done to identify and eradicate these causes.

  This is not to argue that an obligatory celibate lifestyle undertaken as a condition for ministry is not to be seriously examined—simply that the matter may be far more complex than much of the debate would admit.

  But let’s go back to where all this began—Michael McGirr. His writing has that wonderful lightness—not unlike your own may I say without flattering—touching the mysteries which make up our life while happily avoiding the frozen religious language that only serves to wash off us. His writing lands on the page as lightly as a butterfly with sore feet.

  A bit lyrical I know. But remember I’ve been splashing in Sydney Harbour.

  Must go.

  So let’s go pil . . . grum!!!

  Tony

  Dear Tony,

  Can’t answer this fully as I’m up country with Louise, fed and watered in our oft-practised kitchen dance, and elated at having time with her; but I read your comments about the link between celibacy and paedophilia with interest. I agree that the causes of abuse are likely to be way more varied and complicated than much of the commentariat would have it. I remember some years back when the gay community were having to defend themselves daily from zealots who insisted there was a direct link between homosexuality and paedophilia. My blood boiled, as I thought of my gay friends who are exemplary parents, and others who’ve fostered children for years.