Interestingly, I have a friend who epitomises those values, as his life is about consistency and permanence all embedded in a comforting calmness, a steadiness and quiet humour that eschews worry.
Obviously, he is not free of worry, but he appears to brush it aside, almost unintentionally it seems, with stoic-like humour.
And that sense of purpose, direction and dedication to a goal seems to infiltrate the lives of others who gather around to soak it up, to bathe in the warmth of a fellow living with intent.
It was Socrates who said that an unexamined life is not worth living; well, my friend has examined his life and although it may not be what everyone else wants, it most certainly suits him and spills over into the lives of others.
The contentment emanating from my friend is such that it appears like a bright light to a moth, as many come to him under the pretence of wanting technical advice, but really, it seems, they are vicariously seeking reassurance of their life choices.
My friend is a practical man, deeply entrenched in masculine values and ideals, and yet a sensitive fellow exhibiting surprising traits that most would not attribute to someone seemingly remote from life’s finer things.
He equates life with a metre rule and is sharply conscious that he has fewer centimetres left than those already lived, and so attempts to ensure that not a millimetre more passes without it adding to the richness of a life lived with a particular zest.
The quiet enthusiasm he injects into every project seems to enliven others, igniting an equal amount of commitment and desire to see the task completed.
And, when you are in his workplace, there is strong sense of community — you belong, and there is a comfort arising from the fact that you are not judged. A rare thing in a society that measures others and judges them on the basis of what they have accumulated, stuff they have gathered as life has trundled by.
We met on a rather soggy day at Ravenswood, near Bendigo, more than 50 years ago as we huddled beneath an absolutely inadequate shelter in a bid to escape the rain.
Our efforts were futile, and to others seemed pointless, as within 30 minutes we were back racing our scramble bikes (now known as motocross), plunging through creeks, ploughing through near knee-deep mud and having, yes, the time of our lives.
Those first couple of seasons of racing coincided, I now know, with La Niña years and subsequently they were both wet and challenging, and the friendship was forged through water, mud and, until then, unimaginable difficulties.
Thanks Noel, I’ve enjoyed the ride and, of course, the enduring friendship.
