Tim McCormack – the generous enthusiast

In the last of this series, acknowledging the key influencers in my first career, I go back to the beginning. In fact, while I’d framed this as being about the foundations for the years between 20 and 40, I was only 18 when I met Tim McCormack.

I had just returned from 12 months as an Exchange Student in Gifu, Japan. My childhood in Ulverstone, North West Tasmania was happy and successful; I’d done OK at school, socially and in various sporting endeavours. Japan had opened me up to the world beyond my little pond; I returned slightly less naïve ready to take on the world. I was a green and zealous young man. I left home and moved into a residential college at Uni in Hobart and in orientation week was welcomed by Tim. His influence on my life was swift and deep.

I was hungry to develop, I was alert to opportunities and was sponge-like in my enthusiasm. I absorbed and mimicked many things from Tim but there are two things in particular that defined the way Tim lived that were so attractive to me I found myself taking them on.

Firstly, Tim was an enthusiast. He was (and probably still is) confident and charismatic. He had passions. He loved the Tasmanian outdoors, he fiercely supported Australian Rules Football team Carlton, and he had a love affair with 1963 EH Holdens. He was active, social and political. People liked him and he liked people. Tim gave me permission to be energetically and irrationally committed to living life at full volume. Fanatical even. We believed in ‘rightness’, to the extent we made decisions that were against the grain.

But Tim’s enthusiasm wasn’t scattered and shallow. One of his attributes that most endeared him to me was his polish and depth. He had an eye for quality that was contagious. He was articulate and considered.

Coupled with his enthusiast nature was a startling generosity. Tim demonstrated time and time again that the money in his wallet belonged to whoever needed it most. I listened wide-eyed to the story of how he’d saved to buy a beloved EH and then given the lot away. It was not that I hadn’t experienced generosity before, but Tim’s style was risky. Resources were simply a tool for living. He gave away time and things. He seemed to be testament to the proverbial truth that what goes around comes around, the more generous he was, the more came back to him.

Tim has a stellar and distinguished career. It has been many years since we shared a coffee, but I come across his name or voice from time to time. Notably, in 2010 he was appointed as Special Adviser on International Humanitarian Law to the Chief Prosecutor at the International Criminal Court, an outstanding achievement.

Mate, thanks for believing in me. Thanks for the years of friendship and for imparting something of your enthusiasm for life and generosity of spirit.

Rob Conkie – the unconventional creative

In this little series reflecting on key influencers in my years between 20 and 40 I come to my mate Rob. Rob and I lived in the same house in Brunswick in the late 1980s. I was a fairly conventional young man; until I met this Ballarat boy it was not common for me to hang out with people who regularly wore clown pants to Melbourne Uni when most other people wore either their private school casual uniform or black. Rob opened up my experience of life to include creativity. I had never known someone as sensually aware and intelligent.

I picked up a little practice from Rob that I still find myself doing sometimes; sitting at the dinner table, before he started eating, Rob would slowly lean forward so his face was immediately above the meal. With eyes closed he would inhale deeply, embracing the smells, immersing himself in anticipation of what the flavours would soon deliver.

On more than one occasion I’ve heard people snigger at the extreme ridiculousness of liturgical dance; for good reason I might add. Can you imagine my reaction, while away with friends one weekend, when Rob announces that he is going to perform a dance to a well known song? He executes with such passion and meaning that the circle around him were drawn into a moving and memorable experience.

From his love of drama as an undergraduate and teaching as a young professional, Rob has done the hard yards, here and in England, and now finds himself with a global reputation in Shakespearian performance. I so admire his passion and competency in a domain of which I know virtually nothing.

But Rob is no marginal arty farty. We got to know each other over a diet of sport and slap stick comedy. We laughed and competed our way around Royal Park golf course countless times. We never got our balls confused because for years Rob played with the same bright pink ball. His golf prowess, unlike mine, meant that he wasn’t prone to losing the little blighters. He kicked the pig skin with both right and left (we are both Carlton supporters), a skill that no doubt served him well during the long period he called England home when the world game joined his list of sporting passions. Despite our shared generalist sporting skill and the hours upon hours we spent talking and competing (we played nerf basketball in our kitchen endlessly, seeking to score from increasingly impossible angles and positions – darts, snooker …. ), I could never come close to him on a tennis court where he still hits an A class ball.

On one occasion, much to Maria’s embarrassment, we sat ourselves in front of a TV screen at Barkly Square Shopping Centre and laughed ourselves silly watching the Naked Gun 2 ½ . We laughed often together, seeing things that were not conventionally comical, but of which we shared a comic perspective. We had some fun, typically during morning peak hour traffic when driving home from the cleaning job we shared, picking out the stereo-typical commuting types. A favourite was the blond young professional women driving small red cars. It amused us deeply how many there seemed to be on any given day at that time.

The Australia I recall growing up in had a neat way of categorising people. White collar, blue collar; Catholics and Protestants; Aussies and migrants; private schools kids and government school kids. There were us’ and thems’ at every turn. Meeting and becoming friends with Rob helped me appreciate that the tendency to categorise creates prejudices that prevent us from embracing all humanity has to offer. Like many exceptionally talented people, Rob did not fit a stereotype and in being a friend, taught me to love the unconventional in people.

Mate, as I’ve said to you before, I feel like our souls are connected in some way. You have helped me laugh. You have opened my eyes. Our lives have their own independent maturity now but you have left an imprint on mine that means I will always be grateful for having you as a friend.

For those who are interested, we’re currently blogging here while on our regular mid year yurting session in Byron Bay.

Ian John – the unacclaimed teacher

I was sitting in a large room with maybe 100 other students. I’d never heard the word before, but I knew it was a powerful concept by the way Ian explained it. He talked about the scientific process and as an undergraduate science student I listened; Ian’s credentials included a PhD in Chemistry. But he talked about more than the process of research, thesis, and peer review. He talked about publication and communication in popular media and high school text books. The point was not just relating to the gap between original research and simplistic high school diagrams but of the seemingly impossible task of getting a dissenting voice any airtime in the popular system. Once something is presented as indisputable fact, many steps removed from peer review science, the competition for truth is reduced to what is palatable in the 7:30 time slot.

To explain the phenomena Ian used the word a number of times. Because I’d never heard it before I could only guess how it was spelled. I wrote enthusiastically in my notes ‘paradime’. It was 1983. I had a hunch the word, which I later learned was coined (or at least first used in this way) by Thomas Kuhn and was correctly spelled paradigm, would be a useful one for me. It was.

I didn’t appreciate however that the bloke who had introduced me to the word would be an extraordinary teacher and friend over the next couple of decades. I have often read and heard about the romanticism associated with smoke filled Parisian coffee shops as students and sophisticates opined and philosophised about life and meaning. For Ian and I, the scene was much less glamorous – we tended to meet in the early mornings at fluorescent light lit near-empty soul-less food courts where some little café was catering for the early morning commuters.

But Ian’s thinking was peerless. We were grappling with the demise of modernity and in particular the associated evolution of Christian spirituality in the West. We read the latest and best books. We debated and critiqued. Ian’s thinking was usually on par or ahead of most things we digested. His consideration and rigour spurred me beyond my intuition. Ian’s responses were often unconsciously referenced as the plumb line among the people I knew.

Renowned theologian Eugene Peterson wrote a curiously titled book called Under the Unpredictable Plant. In it Peterson describes the vocation associated with serving locally without glamour, compared with ‘rock star’ Christianity. Ian typifies what Peterson argues for. He has not (to my knowledge) published anything substantial nor promoted his remarkable thinking and capacities beyond his immediate community. In this, Ian has modelled not only outstanding thinking but exemplary living.

I should add that my point is not to be critical of high profile thinking. Indeed, we need the figurative megaphone to be in the most accomplished hands, and at times I have lamented how little recognition Ian has received when lesser thinking is publically acclaimed. My point is simply to highlight the blend of humility and excellence that is rare, and I’ve seen in Ian over the years.

Ian, I cannot imagine the path my thinking and life might have taken without your companionship and teaching. I thank you deeply.