A couple of weeks back I was in Mossman. It’s a little town in North Queensland. Not somewhere you’d want to visit in the summer - what with the heat, flies, and jellyfish (‘stingers’). But in June it’s got a pleasant laidback feel. It’s close to the Daintree forest and the Great Barrier Reef.

Anyway, I was in Mossman to visit their market, which was under a few big trees by the old Anglican church. Bustling with locals. Lots of smells. Lots of trinkets and fruit. With a few dogs praying, eyes closed, in the shade.

As my family will tell you, I tire of shopping very quickly. It was for the likes of me that God made cafes and bookshops; and nirvana is when the two become one.

The Mossman market book stall had an eclectic collection. Most were battered and dusty, some well-thumbed. One book caught my eye: “The Real Anthony Fauci”. Written by his well-known critic, Robert F. Kennedy Jr.

You’re probably aware of Fauci. He served as director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases in Maryland, USA, from 1984 to 2022, and served as an advisor for every president from Reagan to Biden, including during the present incumbent’s first term. Notably he was there during the AIDS and Covid epidemics.

And you’re probably aware too of this Kennedy, appointed by the current president as the Secretary of Health, who has breathed fresh life into various conspiracy theories and unverified science while at the same time dismantling many of the health protections so long established and resourced in America.

Kennedy and his new broom of associates, rather than pursue their goals on the basis of peer-reviewed research, have tended to avoid such reasoning, and instead (like the current federal leadership generally) focused their media statements on criticizing the public and personal lives of those who have served previously. Like Anthony Fauci.

Not that I was thinking about all that in Mossman. Indeed, I was trying to have a holiday from newspaper reading and the dominance of American news in the World pages.

Yet I was struck by how bizarre this dusty battered book was, sitting there in the Mossman market.

Imagine if someone wanted to write a book putting your name in the title. Not to compliment or praise you, but the very opposite. And imagine your family, seeing this book in bookshops, and maybe feeling angry, or sad, or upset. And imagine a critic of yours having the gall to call their perceptions of you ‘the real’ you.

Which leads into that post-modern of dilemmas: determining what is real.

I’m one of those who believe that what matters in the end is the judgement of those who love you. Those who have seen you at your best, and have supported you during the worst.

What matters is the good you’ve done, and the recipients of that good. Many of whom you won’t know, and never hear from. Though very occasionally someone writes or approaches you to say thank you. You made a difference for them.

What matters is that you’ve tried to stay true to the best of yourself. You’ve tried to be brave in the face of despondency and criticism. You’ve tried not to be defensive or resentful. You’ve tried to not only do good, but think good, and encourage others in their goodness.

So, in that dusty Mossman market, I joined those sleeping dogs in the shade and offered a prayer for Anthony and his family, and Kennedy and his.

Glynn

(Image: Unsplash, Pavan Naik (@pavannaikfcds)