On Decades…

Ten years ago today, Mrs Hills and I left Australia. It was the kind of move you can only really make once, given the recklessness of it – quit your jobs, sell your stuff, buy one way ticket, and jump, unemployed, into the great unknown.

And what a ride it’s been. We’ve lived in the UK, UAE, and even Jordan for a bit. We managed to bring two happy boys into the world! One with a confused hybrid accent and one who is still testing out syllables. Both are true delights.

We kept moving forward, even when the map was blank, and even when it warned us that “here be dragons” (there were, indeed, sometimes dragons. Most were slain; we reached an uneasy truce with others).

The seasons change and so have we – a desire for flexibility has given way to the joy of domestic rhythms; the joy of the quick-turn problem-solve has given way to longer horizons. We’ve learned the value of showing up – and being showed up for.

There have been good years and objectively rubbish years, along with years of plenty and years of scarce, supplemented by times of mourning and times of dancing (the dancing was not me).

In all, there has been “a time for everything”, as ancient wisdom puts it.

What of the next ten? Who knows! Lots of love, books, hugs and hopefully marginally less dancing (or, at the very least, less Chicken Banana)

On years…

There are years of your life, and there are years of your life.

There are years of just living, and there are years of consequence. Of growth, of pain, of stretching, and jubilation.

…years of your life, and years of your life.

I’ve been thinking about this lately – 2025 being a year of incredible consequence, joy and stretch for us.

There is something meaningful in the rhythm of “big times” and “small times”.

And this is also ancient truth. Ecclesiastes puts it this way: “For everything there is a season…”

In modern life, we’ve become divorced from the seasons and rhythms of existence.

You want a tropical mango in a freezing blizzard in London? You’ve got it!

You want all of the world’s knowledge on a little black rectangle in your pocket? Voila!

…and that’s not healthy.

There are years and there are years… And accepting that is freeing.

It lets you mourn when you should mourn…
It lets you celebrate when you should celebrate…
It lets you stretch when you should stretch…
It lets you harvest when it’s time, or accept when the harvest has failed…

…and it lets you live in the days that you are given.

It enables you to not worry about tomorrow (a wise man once said that tomorrow had enough worries of its own), but rather to let the day unfold as it unfolds.

And sometimes that unfolds in years of consequence.

…sometimes in months of sadness.
…and, often, in days of mere, but blissful, mundanity.

There are years, and there are years. And that’s a good thing.

On one’s early 20s…

I had a surreal moment driving down the highway the other day.

A song from 2008 came on, and I was suddenly struck with the vivid, tangible, memory of being in my early 20s…

You might remember it. That desire for a future you can’t quite put into words yet… A feeling of dissatisfaction and listlessness… a sense that the world doesn’t take you seriously quite as you are…

…an odd, persistent, feeling of life being a bit incomplete.

Of course, I wasn’t incomplete, and, in fact, life was pretty good… I just didn’t know it yet.

And as quick as that, the sensation passed, and I was filled with gratitude. For the love of my wife, for the joy of my two healthy sons, for a meaningful career, for “ride or die” friends, and for the graciousness of God.

This post doesn’t really have a point, but I wish that I could give 2008 me a hug and tell me that it all turns out ok…

…that I wasn’t really incomplete; I was just impatient and should enjoy the ride.

PS: what music does to your brain is wild.

Remembering My Grandad

My grandad would have been 86 today. He was truly a great man. Here is a little message I wrote to be read at his funeral back in 2021.

Personal Reflection – James – February 2021

Because he was such a magical man to all who met him, it is difficult to put into words the many ways in which Grandad was special to me.

We grandkids used to say that grandad was a Very. Busy. Man. Even after retirement, he was always up to something… whether he was working with other seniors to help them learn computers, building something in the garage, or caring for Nana… he was always BUSY… but all that ‘busy-ness’ belied something very meaningful.

And it is in that ‘busy-ness’ that Grandad showed his amazing example of what it meant to be a good man. And he showed it to everyone. He was always teaching, even if it wasn’t in words – whether that “all work is honourable”, that you cannot comment on other people’s toilet noises, that you should work hard, or what the true meaning of the “for better or worse” vow means.

He was an amazing example to all, but to me, grandad was so much more. And the five grandchildren were extremely lucky to have had him. Every day in our lives, we knew that grandad loved us all unconditionally. Some of my earliest memories are sitting around the dining table at Orchard St for Sunday lunch, him throwing off his Britishness to be goofy and make us laugh. As I got older, he imparted his love for technology, for gardening and for JRR Tolkien.

He was also incredibly kind and thoughtful. The last time we saw grandad, he made a show of taking Bec by the hands and giving a short speech about how he loved her, welcomed her to the family and considered her a daughter. I know he would have done the same for our little boy in a few weeks.

There really aren’t any words that can truly explain what Grandad meant to me.

I miss you, Grandad. You leave an unfillable, eccentric-man-sized-hole in my life.

We will see you again, and we will talk about the madness of life once more.

Until then, in the words of our friend Mr Tolkien: “I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.”

On valuing fatherhood

As life trundles on, fewer things irritate me. Life’s too short to sweat the small stuff.

But there are two words that absolutely make my blood boil: “Daddy daycare”.

My gosh.

I shouldn’t need to say it, but me spending time with my kid is not daycare. It’s parenting.

The 90s sitcom stereotype of the hapless, only-vaguely present father did a lot of damage to fatherhood. The narrative undermines the critical role each of us plays.

Bec and I might be better at different parts of this weird and wonderful parenting journey, but… spending time with my son is literally the least I can do to be a decent parent!

Doesn’t matter if I’m his Dad or his Mum… It’s not daycare. It’s parenting.

Some of the great dads I know, like my friend Pete, or the inimitable Bandit Heeler (iykyk) are good dads because they’re simply present. They go to the park (when they’d rather be sleeping), play a stupid made up game (when Netflix is preferable) an they’re there to listen (even when wrung out).

My son needs me to play with him, cook for him, clean up his stuff. And I’ll happily do it.

But lets not call it daycare. It’s parenting.

Furthermore, #CocomelonDelendaEst

Surprised by fatherhood: a list

1. The washing. My goodness, the washing. How does somebody so small generate so much laundry?!

2. Everything I own has a little bit of vomit on it now.

3. The love I immediately had for him was unconditional and irrational and visceral and fully complete.

4. It is surprisingly easy to switch from “playtime Dad voice” to “serious lawyer voice” in mere seconds.

5. You spend more time than you would think on your hands and knees every day looking for dummies and teethers and lost socks.

6. How he can wake up every hour from midnight to 5am but somehow when he smiles at me at 7am the room will brighten and all is forgotten.

7. It’s possible to attend relatively serious (Teams) meetings with vomit on one’s shirt but still project credibility.

8. I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world (though I would pay a handsome sum for a good night’s sleep).

On ice cream as a respite to a busy world

Our family is fond of telling a story of the time we ran into my grandfather at a supermarket car park when my siblings and I were much younger.

My grandfather – a man of high standing in the community, of amazing virtue, and of deep wisdom – was loitering near the indoor car park entrance, eating an ice cream, while waiting for my grandmother.

When he saw us, he looked slightly guilty and awkwardly asked us not to tell our grandmother that he was eating ice cream. By any stretch, it was a comical moment.

Predictably, once we got to the top of the stairs, we ran into my grandmother. Immediately, my brother, all of 5 or 6 at the time, told my grandmother that our grandfather was downstairs eating an ice cream.

For many years, the funny part of this story was that my brother ratted out my grandfather nearly immediately. That remains funny.

But as I’ve got older, and time has passed, the story has taken on other dimensions, at least to me.

The story now reminds me that my grandfather who was (and is), in many ways, super-human, was also human. And the human simply wanted a quiet moment with a simple pleasure.

The story now reminds me that, in lives devoted to finding meaning and giving it to others, sometimes we need these moments of banality.

The story now reminds me that sometimes we need to eat our ice cream as a quiet respite to a busy world.

And the story now reminds me that sometimes we need to be caught, to the delight of our grandchildren, doing something slightly naughty.

I wonder what else this story will remind me of in another 20 years.

Quirky experiments: be curious

In 2018, on my request, my grandfather wrote a letter to my wife to celebrate a milestone birthday.

It was a one-page handwritten letter filled with a goldmine-like numbered list of observations about life that he had gleaned along the way. In his typical understated way, he said “it is not a worked-out system but rather some random things that I approve”. After I read the letter, I thought about it a lot in the coming weeks and days.

One thing in particular still stands out to me: “give way to quirky experiments”.

The one and the same avocado!

I thought more about it and realised that Grandad is one of the most intellectually curious people I have known. He has always had some sort of experiment on the go – whether it was building something, planting or growing something, or simply reading about a new area.

Notably, I turned up at their house one day (well into his retirement) to discover a giant telescope sitting in his study. It turned out that he had picked up a book about stars, taken an interest in astronomy, and started stargazing from suburban Brisbane.

I’ve tried – to varying degrees of success – to adopt this advice.

Since the time of his letter to my wife, I have grown an avocado tree from seed (pictured above). I tried painting (this was not a success). I’ve enjoyed baking bread. I grew a sourdough starter. I brewed beer with a friend. I’ve tried to grow various seeds or try new food combinations.

Many of these experiments failed; a number barely lasted a week. But I can recall many of these quirky experiments – especially the ones shared with friends – because they added welcome trivia my life in a way that the ‘eat / work / eat / sleep / repeat’ cycle cannot.

If all you are is the sum total of your work (and, dare I say, religious) life, then you are probably – frankly – a bit boring. If nothing else, your quirky experiments make for good pub conversation-fodder… “Did I tell you guys I’m growing an avocado tree?”