My life, for the most part, happens within a beautiful bubble. I live on Mitchells Island, the boundaries of which are the mighty Manning River and the Pacific Ocean. There are many of us living happily in our safe bubbles along the Eastern seaboard of Australia, and other places, of course.

However, far greater numbers of humanity are not in any sort of bubble at all. These human beings are totally exposed to climate catastrophes, war, abject poverty, oppression, indignity, disease and various combinations of these.

My bubble is continuously getting jostled, punched in but not quite punctured, by the news of the world–which, frankly, is bleak at this time. I’ve even considered turning off any news reporting. It’s been particularly bad this last week.

For instance, I’d really hoped that Joe Biden would show up well in the American presidential debate, but instead he pretty much came across as a doddering 81-year old. People wonder if perhaps he’s not fit for the rigors of holding a four-year term as president.

I’d hoped that the Supreme Court justices would not grant American presidents immunity from prosecution, as they did today. Relating to the ruling, one of the dissenting justices said, “In every use of official power, the President is now a king above the law.’ You would hope that a king figure would be benevolent. But we’ve seen how power tends to corrupt and absolute power, as the saying goes, corrupts absolutely.

It’s not true, though, that I’m going to give up on listening and reading the news. If anything, I think we all need to be well informed, especially now.

And yet, inspiration can come from unexpected places. Joy can keep breaking through.

I attended a funeral yesterday. The deceased is the husband of 44 years to my lovely friend, Fram. Gordon died quietly during his afternoon snooze. The solace of a peaceful death will still leave a huge whole in the life of one’s intimate. I feel for my friend and cannot help but think that it could have been my husband making his exit, or Daniel might have to deal with my leaving first.

A special thing happened in this ‘celebration of Gordon’s life’. A group of about 40 men showed up early at the chapel, each one of them in a blue jacket and blue shirt, each one of them white- or gray- haired or balding. They sat together en masse, and one of them was invited to come up to the podium to eulogize his mate. He explained that they would see their friend twice a week at their Senior Men’s gym class. They got to know Gordon over the years, especially as part of the ritual was going out for coffee after the gym.

I was reminded of the great uplifting significance of any of the communities to which we belong. Fram was part of two communities that I’m involved with and some of those members were in attendance, too.

The Senior Men have dubbed themselves The Walruses, a name which clearly shows they don’t take themselves too seriously. And yet, when the funeral director called on the men to form an honor guard for the recessional, they could have hardly been more dignified and inspiring of love.

Whether or not we live in a bubble, there will always be ways we can look to connect. In the bleakest of times, that’s when we most need to connect.