On being INFP

I came into contact with the Myers Briggs Personality Indicator more than 20 years ago. I did the test and came out as INFP.   It was a fairly basic instrument then, but was absolutely cathartic at the time.  I was brought up by parents who were ISFJ and ISTJ, and married an ESTJ.  Partnership with an ESTJ works just fine, and even though each preference is opposing, they are used in the same way, either extraverted or introverted.  So at different levels, we have excellent understanding, if not always agreement.

So, being surrounded by Judgers and influenced by Thinkers, I grew up believing I was not in a position to make pronouncement on world affairs, let alone understand them, despite a reasonable education.  When I learned that there was a whole group of people out there who weren't J, and who lived like Perceivers, and that it was ok to be Feeling, and in fact there was nothing wrong in being Introvert instead of Extravert, it was like a door was opened to the real world.

Gobbledegook to anyone who doesn't know the MBTI.  But illuminating as an insight to personality, and probably should be compulsory.

When I looked for a good INFP link (above), and re-read the description, it is even more accurate than it was 20 years ago.

The long arm, the strong arm.

There are times when one feels completely disempowered.  Always at the point of take-off and landing, and often plenty more times inbetween.  Any so-called Act of God, whether it be earthquake, storms, or floods, and, of course, or when you meet the long arm, the strong arm, the long arm of the law.  (Warren Zevon, I believe.)  At the siren-sounding moment when the cop catches you speeding.  At school, when you have to go and see the principal.  All disempowering moments. 

There's a real levelling when you're sitting outside the court on a Monday morning, watching all the people come and go - mostly lower socioeconomic, but not always.  They know one another, greet one another as though it's what you do, where you go, on a Monday.  The kids romp around as though they're at playschool.  They know the place well.  I'm one of them now.  Waiting for the court to say whether my daughter has to answer the charge of attempted poisoning.  It's a greater charge than any of the others out here, waiting.  They're mostly in for DIC or fines, or petty theft.  We're alongside grand larceny.  But they don't know that.  Even when we're in the dock, they refer to it as 'the charge'.  There are no police on our case today - usually they're there, sitting rather smugly on the benches.  I can say that now, because I'm on the other side, the side where the police are pigs, dicks, or whatever.  It's a weird feeling, being in the paradigm shift.  Thinking they could have not laid charges, not arrested her, could have taken the time to understand what it means to have an intellectual disability.  But they don't have to, of course, being the long arm, the strong arm. 

The court is obliged to take more notice, though.  You can't just arrest and imprison a person with an intellectual disability these days.  Psychiatric reports advise a judge on what finding to make; then teams of specialists are called into play after that.  And one just becomes a parent again, disempowered, useless.  Waiting.

The spirit splutters and dies so easily, so quickly.

What's it all about, Alfie?

Last week we went to visit a close friend in hospital.  He has had a heart attack, although not a body-dropping one, thank God.  He had had angina and after they did tests, it was found that he'd actually had a heart attack.  Fact is, he's our age, and that seems way, way too young.

It's very disempowering, finding that control has been suddenly whipped from your grasp like that.  You are at the mercy of your body, not your mind.  I don't know that the mind ever really catches up to the body in actual years, so that when the body starts to remind the mind there's repair work to be done, the mind often ignores the plea for help and continues to expect the body to get on with it.

When these disempowering times strike, healthwise, it does tend to put things into perspective.  It pares things down, reduces the importance, strips the packaging, and focuses the mind intently.  What on?  Living, of course.  Maybe there is a real desire to step backwards, away from the coal face, away from the frippery, and back to where it was always safe.  Where people who loved you, took care of you, made decisions for you, fed you, clothed you and all you had to do was keep living.

Happy Birthday, Dad

My father would have been 100 years old today.  That's an impossible thing to imagine, although some still have fathers who are centurians, I guess.  But Dad died when he was 69, March 1981, when I was six months pregnant with his second granddaughter.  He had pancreatic cancer, and it was the family's decision not to tell him, although I can't imagine for a moment that he wouldn't have known.  Perhaps he talked to "Gray", the family doctor, and they came to an arrangement that he wouldn't let on to Mum that he was dying.  At the time, I suppose it seemed easier. 

Having served in the Second World War, he put great value on his principles of life.  Certain things came first, and I think family would have been in that spot, closely followed by obedience to duty.  My guess is that he was ISTJ where everything and everyone had a place.  He did not suffer fools gladly, and seemed to have little time for women in a leadership role, unless they were Maori.  His love of the Maori history and people was paramount, although he had no time with the radicals, either Maori or Pakeha. He collected artifacts, either at auction, or by fossicking around the coastal pa sites.  When I was young, I remember his obsession with Moa eggshell scraps which he planned to put together if possible, but meanwhile kept in matchboxes.  Both my parents smoked at that time and Mum was forever picking up a matchbox, opening it upside down, only to find a scattering of egg shells at her feet.  I can hear her now.

Both before and after WWII, Dad was a journalist.  As well as his parliamentary job, he wrote freelance  and contributed to journals and newspapers.  His emphasis on the well-written and well-spoken word bordered on fanatical so that it was almost pointless having a conversation with him as he would be waiting to pounce on a mis-pronounced word, or grammatical mistake.  He adored it once television arrived as he had a non-stop field-day with anyone who opened his or her mouth.  He hated women drivers, yet he was bound to having Mum as our only driver because he could not get a license to drive due to diplopia, or  'double vision' acquired during the War.  Used to tell us he could see two of Mum and always chose the prettier.

The car we had was a 1957 Ford Anglia, cream, which was brought back from the UK where he and Mum had been that year.  This was the year that my sister and I were literally farmed off to an aunt and uncle's farm, as it was not done to take children with you in those days.  A scholarship supported them both while they were there, and Dad wrote copious copy which he sent back home.  They were especially proud of that Anglia, which Mum named "Clementine".  Driving with Dad meant sitting pretty much in silence, depending on his mood, while he over-rode Mum's driving decisions with a "PASS HIM" command issued from his passenger side of the seat, and issued with utter distain for the obligatory minimum passing distance required.  He loathed drivers who would pass us, of course, and if they dared to cut in, he would reward them with a curse and demand that Mum "TOOT HIM", often leaning over to pre-empt the order.   I'm quite sure he would have liked to get behind the wheel, but as he couldn't, he was going to make sure Mum didn't let the side down.

Dad did not seem a happy person, but he was content with his own company and mostly content with his family of women, provided they were seen, not heard.  We all developed extra-sensitive 'mood assessment' antennae so that we could be on red-alert if necessary, and tiptoe around the father.  We kids never knew what upset him, and quite possibly, Mum didn't either, but we knew what to say, when to say it, and when to remain completely silent.  He was always like this, and some of my earliest memories were his interminable silences.  However, when he was younger, I like to think he was different, happier, somehow.  I like to think that having a family meant he was more grounded, in spite of the War, in spite of leaving someone he loved behind in the UK.  I like to think that until we grew up and had minds of our own (God forbid), that he was more centered, relaxed, and that for a few years the concept of fighting for one's country actually meant something.

Happy 100th birthday, Dad.  Would you like to be here now?  I wonder.

Pam has gone.

I dropped Pam over the Huka Falls today. It was rather sad to see her go and to know that I won't have her around to talk to any more. I have known Pam for many years now, and we have worked together, internationally for the last three. She was such a strong, courageous person, but so frail and little. Her eyes were deep brown and her smile was contagious. She was always dressed perfectly, nails painted, hair just so, right up to the time she died.

Pam has been with me since July last year when I was in Germany at one of our conferences, and asked if I would take some of her ashes to spread here in New Zealand. I've not been asked to do anything like this before, and I was rather amazed to think I'd been charged with such a task. The small blue/green silk drawstring bag held inside it a pink gauze bag, and inside that again was a small plastic bag, sealed, with her ashes inside.

This summer has been a journey with Pam. We have travelled up to the lake together, Pam and I, stopping at a lookout over Vinegar Hill where she laughed to see sheep so close to where she was standing. We stopped on the Desert Road where she admired Mt Ruapehu and the clouds which she said were so beautiful. We took a walk around the back of the Tokaanu hotpools where she was amazed at the raw beauty of the steaming pools, and lastly, we stopped again at the Huka falls where she stood and watched the power and drama of the aqua water surging and boiling underneath the bridge.

Pam has gone now, but I was reminded of the song, The Wind Beneath my Wings, and just briefly, I felt as though she was with me still. I have been thinking about the work she did as president of our international organisation, and I have thought carefully all this last year about whether I would, as I have been asked to, take over this position at our next General Assembly. I could do the task - differently, of course - but I hope they find someone stronger than I am.

To each his own.

Barbequed Sausages

Holidays usually mean relaxed reading, mostly in the form of thick paperbacks with curling-up corners, or loads of magazines. The kids do the trashy stuff, regaling us with what’s up, who’s up, and who’s paying. I rather like the glossy food mags full of stuff I’ll never cook, but love to think I might. I always think that perhaps by reading these and watching a fair amount of Masterchef, the process of osmosis will take over and suddenly I’ll be a whiz in the kitchen. Never happens, of course, for many reasons, not the least of which is that I never have the ingredients they demand. Not in my own kitchen, and, surprisingly, never in the bach kitchen. If one could call it a kitchen. It’s more a corner of the room where the fridge, stove, and sink seem to be. And a moveable, lockable pantry. So the holiday cooking goes by the boards and just becomes what my mother used to cook way back when I was a kid. Minus the boiled-egg-beetroot-lettuce-with-highlander-milk-and-DYC-vinegar-salad-dressing. I never liked that then, and can’t abide the thought of it now.

We didn’t have bbq’s in the very early days, and the first I remember was one Christmas when I was about 10, Dad bought us (my sister and me) a small, circular bbq on three legs. It was speckled dark blue, and had a half-shield with a small rack. The grill was circular and could be turned easily. I think it came with charcoal as I don’t remember rushing around my grandmother’s garden looking for bits of dry wood to burn. That bbq was the best present I’d ever had and almost cured me of my deep, abiding hurt of not being given my very own washing-machine when I was three. That was probably the time I began to suspect Santa of his miraculous powers of perception, kindness, and endless bounty. Anyway, back to the bbq. After we’d spent each Christmas and New Year with my grandmother, my father returned to work and my mother took my sister and me to friends at the beach. This was, as far as I could see, my annual reward for ‘being good’ throughout the duration of the grandparent time. What I didn’t realise then, but do now, is that it was equally a reward for my mother. The beach holidays were the best. Born within 12 days of each other, my girlfriend and I were more like sisters, and our little sisters were only there to keep each other amused and out of our way. Our families had been friends forever, so growing up together has continued over the decades.
But the new bbq – well, that was a winner. We cooked everything on it we could possibly find. Sausages were the main plat du jour and we would cook up a storm. I don’t remember how they tasted, but quite possibly that was of minor importance, as being responsible for the evening meals suddenly became a position of responsibility which demanded a great deal of attention. The parents were probably in the kitchen knocking back a few g & t’s while whipping up the obligatory condensed milk & DYC vinegar salad dressing for the aforementioned salad, and boiling a few new potatoes for good measure.

Time has passed since those halcyon days, and we no longer go to the old bach at the beach. We still Christmas together, but it’s more refined these days. But, still, what could be more Kiwi than bbq’d sausages? The Aussies have their prawns, the Kiwis their saussies. It’s the only way I can endure the least interesting preparation of the end bits and pieces of meat wrapped in intestines; heavily smoked on the barbie, slapped between the halves of crusty French bread and smothered with tomato sauce. But not on a gas bbq – they’re just a waste of space. Invented by those who, for some reason, do not enjoy the endless search for tinder, the smoke which always blows towards you, or the slightly charred edges of whatever might be thrown on it.

So, today, at some stage towards feeling-slightly-peckish-time (no watches worn on holiday), I set about firing up the old concrete block bbq that sits a few feet from the bach. As the flames licked upwards, I became slightly nervous and thought I’d better chop some of the dried pig-fern that was leaning rather prettily over the flame site. It was then that I heard the siren, way down in the bay, indicating some sort of trouble. Minutes later it was followed by what sounded like a fire engine racing its way from the next town to our area. At the same time, a small plane flew across. Dear God, I thought, I wonder if there’s a total fire ban and I hadn’t been aware of it? The fire wouldn’t stop pouring out smoke and the hazardous fernery started to look like a real problem. I picked up a pair of choppers and began to slash away some of the fronds, while listening attentively to the siren now racing towards us. Nervously, I looked at the younger daughter who comforted me by saying, “well, there’s nothing you can do about it now!” I pictured the fire engine struggling to get up our long narrow track and wondered where on earth it would be able to turn around, once here. What sort of fine would they dish out? Had I completely ruined the holiday for everyone, all for the sake of a couple of saussies? The siren continued to make its presence felt by screaming up the hill, but mercifully it continued past our driveway and down the other side of the hill, its racing engine out for someone else and not for me.

Instead, we enjoyed the lamb & mint sausages, now frizzled and charred into submission, on their nests of crusty bread, smothered in tomato sauce, with homegrown beetroot on the side. Who wouldn’t?

What's new about it?

What exactly is new about a New Year, other than it’s changed its age? 2009 becomes 2010 and we are encouraged to remember it as baby Millenium reaching its tenth birthday. All that does is make all those over 20 wonder where the last ten years have gone and what’s to show for them? We are hardwired, all of us, around the world, all creeds, all races, one way or another, to sit up and take notice of the passing of another 12 month cycle. But, it’s just another day. The sun shines (where I am) and the birds sing. The tui continue to hound all-comers off their particular flax stem, while the bellbirds slip to and fro waiting for their opportunity to see if there is any honey left. But, like the old year, all the sweetness seems to have gone.

I don’t like the hype around New Year with newspapers telling us what to eat, how to slim, how to exercise, what to wear, and how to improve our lives. Surely to God we know all of that? It’s the Silly Season for newspapers and they’re relentlessly full of that sort of garbage. Anything to fill up the pages. But it does give cause to reminisce no matter how you try to avoid it. It invariably makes me depressed; the march of time, imprinting itself heavily with the passing years. More time spent indoors than out, in front of the screen, keeping up with technology, trying to keep up with the increasing pace demanded by increasingly anxious and worried parents.

Up at the bach, I can pretend time is standing still. Not much has changed in 40 years, other than the addition of an indoor loo and tiny shower room although the old long-drop is still functional and often used in the summertime when rainwater is short. I was asleep when the New Year slipped in, but I woke to hear the sirens and fireworks set off by the enthusiasts down in the bay.

The first day dawned bright and sunny, the same as the day before and the one before that. We seemed to have got the best of the weather where we are, certainly better than at home. I spend most of my time holding the ladder while the husband paints the hellishingly high second story of the matchbox bach we share with others in the family. Our Christmas guests and family have all gone their various ways, the young seeking the excitement of massed gatherings waiting, readied, to welcome the New Year. It has ever been thus and I well remember desperately escaping the ‘Olds’ in order to find my own excitement and promise of a wondrous new year. It’s not that I object to the kids’ departure, but we both miss their fresh take on the world as we sit around cynically discussing the failures of the world’s leaders. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the world’s leaders, the country’s leaders, or my own job, the expression ‘pushing shit uphill with a stick’ tends to come to mind as I realise the truth in the maxim of one step forwards, two backwards. There is an invisible, relentless force that makes one believe inexorably in the principle of inertia. No matter how hard you push for something to happen, there is a force that pushes back, equally hard, and just says, whaddya mean you want to change the world, make things better, more workable, achievable, or equal?

It’s not the best day of the year, for me, but you have to start somewhere.