Thought Leadership and Opinion Archives - Page 3 of 35 - Clover Hill Diaries

This Threat Can Destroy a Nation – And It Starts in Your Head

Carl Jung once said:

“It is becoming more and more obvious that it is not starvation, not microbes, not cancer, but man himself who is mankind’s greatest danger, for the simple reason that there is no adequate protection against psychic epidemics, which are infinitely more devastating than the worst of natural catastrophes.”

What he meant is simple but unsettling: our biggest threat doesn’t come from outside forces like famine or disease, it comes from inside our own minds.

What’s a “psychic epidemic”?

Jung was talking about what happens when destructive ideas or emotions spread through a community or a nation. Think of it as mass hysteria, but on a much bigger scale. People start feeding off each other’s fear, anger, or prejudice until it snowballs into something far more dangerous than any one person could cause on their own.

History is full of examples: witch hunts, Nazi Germany, the Rwandan genocide. These didn’t happen because of earthquakes or floods, they happened because people’s minds got caught up in a destructive collective belief.

Why it’s worse than a natural disaster

If we face a flood, a fire, or a disease outbreak, we can often rebuild, treat, or protect against it. A psychic epidemic is different. There’s no vaccine. Once it takes hold, it can destroy trust, compassion, and reason. And unlike a virus, it can keep spreading long after the first outbreak.

The scars it leaves, mistrust, division, hatred, can last for generations.

The modern outbreak

Today, the tools that connect us can also spread dangerous ideas faster than ever. Social media algorithms push us toward outrage. Misinformation circulates in hours, not months. Conspiracy theories grow into movements.

We’ve built a world where ideas, good or bad, can go viral. And once they do, they can be hard to stop.

How we protect ourselves

We can’t put up a quarantine zone around human thought. But we can:

Slow down before we share or react.
Listen to different viewpoints, especially ones we don’t already agree with.
Teach and practise critical thinking.
Value respectful debate over point-scoring.

None of this is easy. But if Jung was right, then protecting ourselves from collective madness might be the most important public health measure we have.

Because the real danger isn’t just in the storms nature throws at us, it’s in what happens when our minds become the storm.

#DangerousIdeas #CollectiveThinking #MassPsychology #CarlJung #PsychicEpidemics #MindsMatter #CriticalThinking #TruthMatters #SocialAwareness #MindsetShift

When the Trolls Take Over the Thread

“People are watching. Values are showing.”

You’ve probably seen it before.

Someone posts something heartfelt. Maybe it’s about a humanitarian crisis or a fundraising appeal. Maybe it’s just a quiet call to care – about refugees, conflict zones, environmental devastation, or yes, children starving on the other side of the world.

Then in comes the comment.
Cold. Blunt. Designed not to inform, but to provoke.

“Nobody in Australia gives two hoots about people starving on the other side of the world.”

It’s the kind of line that doesn’t just shut down empathy – it throws it under a bus, reverses back over it, and then posts a meme to celebrate the ride.

And yet, as predictable as it is, it works.
It gets reactions.
It triggers outrage.
It attracts backup.
The poster’s “tribe” shows up. So do the people who want to push back.

And within a few hours, the post isn’t about the original issue at all.
It’s about that comment.

The comment that’s no longer about the suffering. It’s about the person who made it about themselves.
And the energy that could have been used to support or inform or take action is now being used to argue with someone who never came to learn, only to dominate the thread.

Eventually, the admin steps in.

“Hi all. Comments outside the group rules and obvious trolling are now reaching overload levels. We appear to be going down a Facebook rabbit hole. As such, we are locking comments. Thank you to those that engage respectfully.”

And just like that, the whole thing shuts down.

No discussion.
No momentum.
No outcome.

This is the world of the disruptor.

They don’t always fit the stereotype. Some are aggressive and obvious. Others are more subtle, smugly asking “reasonable” questions while spreading doubt or stirring division.

And then there are the strawman specialists. The people who twist what’s been said into something it never was, then argue fiercely against that distortion. They’ll take a comment about caring for people in crisis and turn it into, “So you’re saying we should ignore our own country?”

And sometimes, the derailment is even more calculated. The conversation begins with a plea for basic human compassion, food, safety, dignity and ends in a rabbit hole about geopolitics. Suddenly it’s all about Hamas. As if the actions of a regime justify the suffering of children. As if starvation is deserved because of who controls the border.

This isn’t nuance. It’s a tactic. A way to sidestep empathy by turning the victims into suspects. And once that happens, there’s no space left for humanity , just cold rationalisation and echo chambers clapping back in agreement.

And before you know it, the thread isn’t about the issue anymore, it’s about defending a point no one actually made. That’s the rabbit hole. And too often, we fall in.

What they have in common is intent. Their goal isn’t dialogue. It’s derailment.

And the more charged the topic, the more likely they’ll appear.

Strawman arguments don’t build dialogue – they burn it down.

We could say ignore them. But we know that’s easier said than done, especially when the issue feels personal or urgent.

We could block them. But often by then the damage is already done, the space has been flooded, and meaningful conversation has drowned under it.

Or, we could start recognising what’s happening for what it is.
Not just trolling. Not just bad behaviour.
But performance is often driven by ego, dressed up as bold truth-telling.

The people doing it rarely think they’re being watched. But they are.
Not just by their tribe – the loyal few who jump in to defend every outburst – but by everyone else who’s watching and thinking, “When you mock pain, you reveal more about your values than you realise and none of it is admirable.”

So what can we do?

We don’t need to match someone’s energy to show who we are.
We don’t need to follow them down every rabbit hole, or correct every misrepresentation.

When someone builds a strawman, twisting our words to make them easier to attack, the goal isn’t clarity. It’s control. And we don’t have to give it to them. See footnote

We just have to keep our focus.
Keep our integrity.
And keep speaking to the people who are still listening.

Because not everyone in the thread is arguing.
Some are watching.
Some are learning.
And some are waiting for a voice that sounds like reason.

Let that be you.

“Outrage is loud, but character lasts longer.”

Footnote:

How to Handle a Strawman Argument Without Losing the Thread

You don’t have to match their energy.
You don’t have to defend something you never said.

When someone responds to a post about human suffering by making it all about geopolitics or criminal groups, that’s not a real response. That’s a strawman. It’s meant to shift the focus, create doubt, and exhaust you.

Here’s how to bring the conversation back:

🔁 Refocus:
“This post is about civilian suffering. Can we stay with that?”
🧭 Clarify intent:
“That’s not what I said. I’m talking about people, not politics.”
🚫 Don’t follow the bait:
“We can debate governments another time. Right now, I’m talking about hunger. About dignity. About human lives.”
🧍‍♀️ Speak for yourself:
“You don’t have to agree with me. I won’t let compassion be dismissed as moral confusion.”

Not every comment needs a reply. But when you do respond, respond with purpose, not performance. Don’t argue for the algorithm. Speak for the people still listening, still learning, still trying to care.

That’s how we keep the thread intact.
That’s how we keep our voice.

#SocialMediaDisruptors #EgoAndOutrage #DigitalCivility #OnlineIntegrity #TribalThinking #PublicValues #WatchWhatYouAmplify #TrollingWithConsequences #RespectfulDialogue

Gareth Ward Is in Custody. Now Let’s Talk About Real Courage.

Gareth Ward has now been taken into custody awaiting sentencing. And as our community processes that reality, something else is rising to the surface – empathy.

I’ve heard it, and maybe you have too. People expressing sadness, disbelief, or even compassion for Gareth. That’s not wrong. Empathy is a good thing. It’s part of what makes us human. But it’s also a reminder of just how brave the two young men were who came forward.

Because they would have known, from the very beginning, that this wouldn’t be easy. They would have known that people would question them. That some would defend him. That there’d be talk about his helpfulness, his advocacy, his years of public service. That others would say, “People have done worse,” or “Good people sometimes do bad things.”

They would have known that if they were part of political or professional circles, people might ask, “Well, what did they expect?” That old narrative. They should have known the culture, the risk, the way things work.

And then, of course, the most familiar kind of deflection. The kind that used to get whispered about women in short skirts. The kind that quietly implies: maybe they brought this on themselves.

We’re still hearing versions of that now.

So when I say “victims” I put that word in brackets, because I know not everyone is ready to see them that way. But let’s be honest: if they hadn’t come forward, there would be no conviction, no sentence, no reckoning. They’ve carried the weight of disbelief, delay, and public doubt and still stood up.

So yes, feel empathy. Feel conflict. But let’s also feel awe.

Because this was never going to be a clean or easy process. And those two young men had every reason to stay silent, and every reason to think they would not to be believed.

They spoke anyway.

And now we get to ask: what kind of community do we want to be in response?

#GarethWard #VictimBravery #EmpathyAndAccountability #CivicResponsibility #JusticeMatters #CommunityReflection #SexualAssaultAwareness #BelieveVictims #HardConversations

In Praise of Lunch

Every now and then, I need a break from writing about what’s going wrong (or going nowhere) at our local council. Today’s that day. It’s 11am, I haven’t had breakfast, and I’m already thinking about lunch, which, let’s be honest, is the one meal that rarely disappoints and never ends in a motion being deferred.

My grandmother believed lunch was the main meal of the day, and frankly, I thought it was just a post-war habit she couldn’t shake. But here I am, decades later, eating my main meal at noon and realising she was the wisest person in the house.

Turns out, lunch has a lot going for it.

The truth is, I love lunch. I especially love having lunch with friends. We always pick somewhere with good food and living in paradise, we nearly always find a spot with great views too. Add in a table full of thoughtful, funny, generous humans, and I’m reminded how lucky I am. Good friends, good food, good conversation. What more do you need?

Lunch is underrated. It doesn’t ask much. You can eat it standing up at the bench or sitting under a tree with a sausage roll and a story to tell. You don’t need matching napkins or a dinner playlist. You don’t need to be on. You just need an appetite and ideally someone who makes you laugh.

Unlike breakfast, you don’t have to fake cheerfulness. Unlike dinner, where at my age you’re not half-asleep. Lunch is simple, forgiving, and strangely optimistic. It happens while the day still has potential.

So let’s stop treating it like a time slot between meetings. Let’s stop pretending a protein bar is a meal. Let’s bring back the proper lunch, with real food and real people, and maybe even a second glass of wine ( maybe not if I want to be awake at 7pm.)

Let’s be honest. If we want meals that build connection, restore sanity, and occasionally include a pastry (or two), lunch is our best shot.

Let’s stop treating it like a speedbump.

Let’s make lunch the main event again.

Shoutout to Lauren Collins at The New Yorker for the inspiration

#LunchWithFriends #GratefulForGoodCompany #ViewsAndConversation #InPraiseOfLunch #SavourTheMiddleMeal #Over60AndThriving
#EverydayJoy #LunchBreakNotBreakneck #FriendshipAndFood
#LivingWellAtLunch

What If We’re Teaching the Wrong History?

When I was at school, history was dates and battles, World War I, World War II, Gallipoli, the Depression. But even back then, 55 years ago, the Middle East was in turmoil, Southeast Asia was shifting under our feet, and Indigenous voices in Australia were demanding to be heard. None of that made it into the classroom.

We were taught facts. Not how to think about them.

No one ever asked: What can we learn from history? How do we hold different perspectives? What does it mean to disagree respectfully? Or to understand where someone else is coming from, even when we don’t agree?

And it matters, because if history doesn’t teach us how to listen, how to think, how to judge wisely, then we’re not learning history. We’re learning trivia.

Chris Wallace, a historian and professor, says the same thing in a recent ABC interview. She argues that decades of neoliberalism have narrowed the purpose of education into something transactional, training people to “get a job,” not become thoughtful citizens. History and literature have been among the first subjects to be cut. They’re seen as “nice to have,” not “must have.”

But what do we lose when we strip those subjects away?

We lose critical thinking. We lose wisdom. We lose the kind of broad understanding that helps societies steer through complexity without being manipulated by loud voices or narrow interests. As Wallace puts it, we end up with people in elite positions “who are highly trained—but not deeply educated.”

She’s not just talking about university. She’s talking about a mindset. And it’s showing up in the way we do democracy, especially at the local level.

We talk a lot about “community consultation” in local government. But let’s be honest, most of the time, it’s just a box-ticking exercise. Surveys, feedback forms, public meetings that go nowhere. We capture mass opinion, but we don’t help people work through the hard stuff: trade-offs, values, vision.

Jay Weatherill, the former SA Premier, says public opinion sits on a continuum—from magical thinking (“lower taxes and better services for all!”) to mature public judgement. And it’s the job of leadership to help us move along that line. Not by preaching. Not by pretending to have all the answers. But by creating space for proper dialogue.

That’s what good history teaches us too. That life is complex. That truth depends on where you’re standing. That understanding how we got here helps us work out where we go next.

It’s no wonder students are disengaging. As Wallace says, if you remove meaningful options, if there’s no space to explore Australia’s political history, social history, Indigenous history, then we’re not just dumbing down education. We’re forgetting our own story.

And when we forget our own story, we’re easy to manipulate. We stop asking questions. We confuse certainty with truth.

So here’s my hope.

That we teach history not just as a set of facts, but as a way of thinking.

That we expect more from civic engagement than noisy town halls.

That we stop asking people what they want and start asking why they want it, and what it will take.

That we invest not just in infrastructure, but in informed decision making, in the skills and tools communities need to think together.

Because democracy isn’t just about who wins the vote. It’s about whether we can still talk to each other after.

Additional reading option

Top Australian writers urge Albanese to abolish Job-Ready Graduates, calling their humanities degrees life changing

Humanities faculties are being restructured not because they cost too much to run, but because they are perceived to return too little. Yet the skills they foster – interpretive reasoning, ethical judgement, historical understanding – remain essential to democratic life.

This post is dedicated to a very wise man, Peter Bailey Brown , who I wish I met earlier

Peter Brown is a man whose legacy continues to unfold in paddocks, policies, and in the lives of the people he’s helped along the way. From the paddocks of Cudal to the boardrooms of international development…

Peter has never lost sight of what matters: listening, learning, and finding practical, human ways forward.

#HistoryMatters #CriticalThinking #PublicJudgement #DeliberativeDemocracy #CivicLeadership #Neoliberalism #EducationReform #DemocracyInPractice #CommunityVoice #LearningFromHistory #TeachTheWholeStory

Are we being gaslit by our own Council?

Moving On Without Looking Back Isn’t Leadership. It’s Evasion.

There’s a growing call within Kiama Council to “move forward” on developer contributions, to focus on new frameworks, technical capabilities, and future improvements. That instinct is understandable. For newly elected councillors, the pressure to defend decisions they didn’t make must be exhausting. No one expects them to carry that weight alone.

But the issue here isn’t the future. It’s the refusal to face the past.

The latest Council report into Section 7.11 and 7.12 developer contributions presents itself as a review. It’s not. It’s an administrative summary, a carefully curated narrative that avoids the most troubling questions.

It does not explain why Council allowed legally required contribution plans to lapse without replacement.
It does not acknowledge the nearly $1 million in lost infrastructure funding from developments like Golden Valley. See previous blog post: How Kiama lost $970,000 in developer contributions and no one explained why
It does not explain why staff continued applying 7.11 levies after the plans had expired, resulting in $1.5 million in overcharges.
And it certainly does not address why this information was omitted from the CEO’s public statements earlier this year.

Instead, we are told that everything is under control. That staff have the skills to prepare new plans. That forward planning is happening “across all departments.”

But if no one inside Council can admit what went wrong, how can we trust that the same systems and staff will get it right this time?

While the report confirms the repeal of the 7.11 plans and notes that overcharges have been refunded, it still fails to address the most critical issues:

Why the required five-year review process was ignored
Why Council allowed the plans to lapse without any replacement
Why the Golden Valley development, with its $1 million 7.11 condition, is excluded entirely from the analysis
Why the CEO’s earlier response omitted this development
What steps are being taken to prevent this kind of governance failure from happening again
Why the review ignored key issues raised by councillors and the community, including those I raised in good faith
It also fails to acknowledge the damage caused when a CEO publicly undermines the credibility of an elected councillor, then commissions a review that examines only what suits the executive agenda. This was not a full or independent review. It was a tightly controlled exercise in reputation management, not truth-telling.

The people responsible for these failures should not be allowed to rewrite history with a few carefully worded lines in a report.

If Council is serious about moving forward with the community, it must first confront what went wrong, tell the truth, and start rebuilding trust from there.

BTW If you’ve ever read a council report and found yourself more confused than when you started, don’t worry, it’s not you. It’s working as intended.

#KiamaCouncil #AccountabilityMatters #DeveloperContributions #GoldenValley #PlanningFail #Governance #LocalGovernment #TransparencyNow #CommunityDeservesBetter #InfrastructureFunding

Housing Strategies and Hollow Promises and Why Listening Isn’t Enough

It’s time to stop drafting strategies that sit on shelves. Let’s start building the courage to act.

If you’ve ever read a local government housing strategy, chances are it felt familiar, even if you were reading it for the first time. They tend to follow a pattern:
✔️ They acknowledge the issues.
✔️ They summarise the feedback.
✔️ They speak the language of care, equity, and inclusion.
But scratch the surface, and you’re often left asking: Where’s the action?

The latest Kiama Municipal Council Draft Housing Strategy in our region is no exception. To its credit, it captures what matters to people: housing that’s affordable, developments that respect the character of our towns, and planning that keeps pace with infrastructure. It admits where voices were missing, renters, younger people, Aboriginal residents, and it publishes community feedback clearly and transparently. That’s important.

But recognition is not reform. We don’t need another document that nods along with community concerns, only to drift into safe territory, generalities, delays, and vague promises of “sensitive growth” and “further consideration.” We need something braver.

Our housing problems aren’t unique, with communities across the country grappling with rising prices, stagnant wages, rental insecurity, and generational lockout.

And in many places, solutions are already being tried. Community land trusts. Build-to-rent models. Tiny home villages. Prefabricated homes built by social enterprise. Councils developing and retaining their own affordable housing stock. There are people doing incredible work, often outside the traditional planning system, because they’ve had no choice but to act.

So why isn’t that reflected in our local strategy?

There’s no commitment to identifying what’s working elsewhere. No plan to pilot innovation. No acknowledgement of the community-led efforts already happening here. And no tools, no inclusionary zoning, no local affordability targets, no plan for securing housing for workers or renters or older people wanting to downsize and stay close to family.

Instead, we get the usual safety net of “alignment with state frameworks” and “monitoring future needs.” It’s the language of delay.

Listening should be the starting point – not the end.

This is about ambition – not just process.

A genuinely community-driven strategy would do more than summarise feedback. It would:

Name and support local innovators already making change.
Seek out bold ideas from elsewhere and ask: could this work here?
Test small-scale pilots and learn from them.
Move beyond consultation and into co-creation, especially with those most affected by housing stress.

Transparent processes and pretty reports are not enough. People need homes, and they need leaders ready to do more than listen.

It’s time to stop drafting strategies that sit on shelves. Let’s start building the courage to act.

#HousingStrategy #AffordableHousing #CommunityLedPlanning #InclusiveGrowth #LocalVoices #BuildBetter #PlanningForPeople #HousingJustice #PolicyToAction

Three men, three egos, and a time bomb. Trying to stay human in a world on fire

Trying to stay human in a world on fire

I’ve been writing this blog for close to 15 years. Often, it has been my way of making sense of things – the news, the noise, the strange mess of modern life. It started as a habit, really. A way to capture the thoughts that came tumbling in after reading the morning papers.

Every day, the first thing I do is pour a coffee from my beloved espresso machine and open the Sydney Morning Herald. But lately, I find myself hesitating. I glance at the headlines – war, retaliation, destruction – and feel the heaviness settle in before I’ve even taken a sip. For the past few weeks, so much of the news has been about Israel, Gaza, Iran, and now the involvement of the United States.

The problem isn’t that I don’t want to know. I do. I just want to understand, not simply react. And that’s harder to come by than it should be.

Too often, the reporting feels breathless. Headlines provoke instead of explain. And somewhere along the way, the context gets lost. We’re left with snapshots of horror and very little help in putting the pieces together. Rarely do we get articles that step back from the emotion, offer both sides, and help us see the broader picture.

That’s why this morning I turned to The Conversation, and I’m so glad I did.
One article in particular helped me take a breath and make sense of it all. It didn’t try to spin a side. It didn’t try to make me feel something. It simply laid out what’s happened – and what might happen next.

The article explores three possible paths forward now that the US has bombed Iranian nuclear sites:

1. Iran strikes back
Iran may retaliate in a limited way but is unlikely to escalate. Its missile stockpiles are dwindling, and the regime’s top priority is survival.

2. Iran backs down
There may be a path to negotiation, but only if Israel stops its attacks. Netanyahu, however, has made it clear he does not want to stop. Any ceasefire would be a major climbdown for Iran’s leadership, and they are not known for backing down easily.

3. The US engagement is limited
Most Americans do not support this war. Trump may not want a long-term military campaign. But once the bombs drop, it is hard to define that as limited.

Reading that article didn’t make me feel better. But it helped me feel steadier. It helped me remember that it is still possible to seek understanding.

So I kept reading. And what stood out most to me this morning was not the missiles or the maps, but the people behind them. The leaders. The ones making these decisions.

Donald Trump, back in charge, is doing what he always does – acting for effect, claiming victory before anyone knows what the consequences will be.

Benjamin Netanyahu, Prime Minister of Israel, is continuing a long campaign not just against Hamas or Hezbollah, but against the very existence of Iran’s nuclear program – and maybe its regime.

And in Iran, Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei holds all the power. Even with a new president, nothing moves without his approval. He has spent decades holding that grip and won’t let go easily.

Each man is rigid. Each man is proud. And none are showing signs of compromise.
It is not a triangle of diplomacy. It is a triangle of ego.

So where does that leave the rest of us?

Thousands of kilometres away.
Nowhere near the missiles, but still carrying the weight of it.

Because in this era of 24-hour news, you don’t need to live in a conflict zone to feel the tension in your chest. It arrives with the headlines. It sits with you at breakfast. It hums underneath your day.

Is it any wonder our birth rate is falling?
Who could blame someone for looking at the world and wondering if it is safe to bring a child into it?

It is easy to feel small in the face of all this. To feel like nothing we do matters. But that’s not true.

All we can do – and it is enough – is focus on what is in our control.

How we treat each other.
What we choose to read and share.
Where we put our energy.
What kind of community we help build.

A while ago, I wrote another blog post about this very idea. About how sometimes the most powerful thing we can do in the face of chaos is return to ourselves. To our values. To our centre.

Because that’s where resilience lives.
And that’s where hope begins again.

#MiddleEastConflict #TrumpNetanyahuKhamenei #NewsFatigue #HopeAndResilience #TheConversation #BlogReflection #GlobalLeadershipCrisis #WhatWeCanControl

Smooth trip, pet Ubers and an iPad joyride

This is a post for all the beautiful Kiama people who’ve been reaching out with care and concern. I’ve heard you, and I’ve been focusing on getting my life back on track.

For those new here, it’s been a tough month. I’ve been calling out the toxic culture in our local council, and what I’ve learned is confronting. Some of our councillors have become so used to operating in the drama triangle that it’s become their norm. But here’s the truth, the only people who can get themselves out of that mess are them.

Last week, I drove to Sydney. This week, I decided to take the train. It was all going to be very civilised. A bit of theatre, catch up with friends, take in MJ the Musical, and head home refreshed.

And mostly, it was.

Let’s start with MJ the Musical. If you ever sang into a hairbrush, attempted the moonwalk on a slippery kitchen floor, or belted out Billie Jean with way too much drama, this show is for you. The dancing was outrageous. The staging was slick. The lead performer channelled Michael Jackson so well I kept forgetting I wasn’t watching the real thing. It’s not a deep dive into controversy. It’s about the craft, the music, the magic. I loved it.

Next day, I jumped in an Uber. Or more accurately, someone ordered an Uber for me. I got in, greeted the driver, and immediately noticed he looked distressed. His English was limited, but it became clear he was expecting a pet. Yes, it was a Pet Uber. Apparently, that’s a thing. And apparently, I am not one.

No dog. No cat. No ferret. Just me.

The poor man was very worried. I briefly considered pretending to be transporting an invisible cavoodle named Kevin but decided against it. He drove me anyway, bless him.

It was only after I arrived that I realised I’d left my iPad in the Uber. And if you know me, you know how much I rely on that iPad. It’s where I read. It’s where I write. It’s practically my second brain.

Cue the great iPad recovery mission.

The young person who booked the ride jumped into action. I jumped into Find My iPad. We both started trying to reach the driver. And then we made the discovery. I was watching my iPad on the move across Sydney. Marrickville. Glebe. Newtown. At one point it did a loop of the M5.

For four days, my iPad Ubered around Sydney. It had a more active social life than I did. My iPad had been everywhere man. I’m not saying it has PTSD, but I do wonder how many dogs licked it before it made its way home.

Eventually, thanks to persistence, goodwill and a few lucky breaks, I got it back. The driver was thanked and rewarded. The young person who coordinated the whole thing was thanked. I went back to Sydney to collect it and made a day of it.

This time, I saw The Spare Room, Helen Garner’s story brought to the stage. And what a joy. It’s sharp and funny and deeply moving. A play about illness and friendship that never preaches or pities. It just notices. It holds space. It lets the audience feel what they feel. I adored it.

As an aside Yes it is clear I love that pink cardigan – Theodore and Scanlan. It cost me an arm and two legs and yes Eevi it is worth every cent. ( Do you have one of those friends you go shopping with and they coming running up to you and say Lynne you must see this – its sooo you. You try it on – they say Lynne – its sooo you – you must buy it and of course you do)

And then something even more astonishing happened. I had Yum Cha for the first time. Yes, I’m nearly 70. No, I don’t know what took me so long. Dumplings. Pork buns. Endless pots of tea. A trolley full of happiness. Why didn’t someone sit me down and make me do this 30 years ago?

The new-look Central Station is seriously something to be proud of. For once, you don’t feel like you’re arriving through Sydney, you feel like you’re arriving in Sydney. The whole place has had a glow up, and it shows. There’s light, space, smart design, and a real sense of arrival. The Grand Concourse feels exactly that, grand, and the way the old sandstone arches now sit alongside sleek glass and smooth escalators is nothing short of gorgeous. It’s functional, it’s stylish, and it finally feels like the gateway to a world-class city. Honestly, it’s the kind of station you can be proud of, the kind you want to show off, the kind that lets us stand tall next to New York’s Grand Central.

The trains though? Bless them. They still look like they were commissioned during the cassette tape era and haven’t had a proper bath since. Grubby, worn out, and clinging to their past lives with stained seats and faded signs. They roll into this architectural wonder like a teenager showing up to a wedding in a hoodie. But you know what? You step off that train, walk into Central’s new glory, and all is forgiven. Almost.

The train home ran on time. I had a window seat, a warm conversation, and a nap without snoring or dribbling. And now I’m home, reunited with my iPad, and back to reading with a grateful heart and a full belly.

Sydney, you’ve outdone yourself.

#SydneyAdventure, #PetUber, #MJtheMusical, #TheSpareRoomPlay, #YumChaFirstTimer, #LostAndFound, #TrainTripTales, #iPadRecovery, #TheatreLover, #Kiama, #TheBugle, #TheBugleNewspaper, #TheBugleApp

What this palliative care expert taught a room full of strangers about dying well

For those new here, I’ve spent the past month highlighting the toxicity and dysfunction within Kiama Council, and it has drained my energy.

So its time to take a break and focus on taking Alex Reed’s advice and working on thriving

Dear readers, I invite you to stay with me on this blog journey as I turn my attention to the extraordinary humans in our community. People often tell me I write beautiful stories. Now feels like the right time to focus on the good in the world.

When I shared my article with Dr Barbato, he replied with this:

Thank you. You have captured the 30-minute talk perfectly. It is rare to meet someone who hears not only the words one speaks but also the deeper messages

“Show up. Shut up. Listen.”

The room was full. Locals had come together for the usual Lions Club dinner. But when Dr Michael Barbato, a retired palliative care expert, stood up to speak, something shifted.

The clatter of cutlery stopped. The room went quiet.

He came with carefully constructed slides. The kind that draw you in without saying too much. As one woman whispered, “He could teach a masterclass in how to use slides.”

Dr Barbato wasn’t there to give a typical health talk. He spoke with gentle authority and offered the kind of truth most of us spend a lifetime avoiding.

His message was confronting, but never cold. Comforting, without being sentimental.

We all know we’re going to die. But very few of us are ready to talk about it.

“We talk about politics and religion,” he said. “But not dying.”

That silence, he believes, is hurting us.

One story he shared has stayed with me, that of writer Cory Taylor, who died from cancer in 2016. In her final book Dying: A Memoir, Taylor didn’t say the worst part was pain. It was loneliness.

People didn’t know how to be with her. They didn’t know what to say. And so they said nothing.

Dr Barbato reminded us that just a few generations ago, most people died at home, surrounded by family. Now, we’re more likely to die in hospital, disconnected from the people who know us best.

And that, he says, is something we can change.

He spoke about the rise of End-of-Life Doulas – trained companions who support dying people and their families with presence, care and calm. He explained how pain relief is essential not just for physical comfort, but for emotional peace. “When people are in pain,” he said, “all their energy goes to their body. Only when pain is controlled can they start to process the rest.”

But what moved the room most deeply was what he shared next, stories of End-of-Life Visions and Dreams.

A little girl who smiled at something unseen just before she passed.

A woman who dreamed of packed bags and a waiting boat, though no one had told her she was dying.

A young man who saw a visitor named Trent sitting at his bedside.

These experiences, Dr Barbato said, aren’t delusions. They are not side effects of medication or confusion. They are part of the dying process, and they happen more often than most people realise.

“Eighty to one hundred per cent of dying people experience them,” he told us. “And they matter. They bring peace. They open space for conversation, for love, for letting go.”

But what many people remember most from his talk wasn’t a statistic or a vision. It was this:

“The job of visitors is simple. Show up. Shut up. Listen. Be the friend you have always been. These people are living, not dying.”

And truth-telling, he added, doesn’t mean forcing people to acknowledge the end. It means giving them room to talk about dying – if and when they’re ready.

“If they’re not speaking about it,” he said, “they’re not in denial. They’re doing what they need to do.”

Before closing, he shared a story from his own childhood, a near-death experience at age seven, and the moment he watched a dying patient suddenly sit upright, arms outstretched, just minutes before passing.

His final words were simple.

The dying don’t need pity. They don’t need performance.

They need presence.

They need permission.

And they need peace.

#PalliativeCare #EndOfLifeCare #DyingWell #DrMichaelBarbato #PeacefulPassing #Kiama