Doing My Bit Chapter 2 - Rotary - Service Above Self

DOING MY BIT

Chapter 2 – Rotary – Service Above Self

Kos Psaltis never really asked. He placed things in front of you the way a solicitor places a document on a desk, quietly, deliberately, with the quiet confidence that the outcome had already been determined somewhere beyond the conversation itself.

“You’re coming to Rotary.”

The words sat between us in the low hum of a BNI morning, carried on the back of clinking cups and overlapping conversations about opportunity, referrals, and the small negotiations that pass for connection in those early hours. The air held the smell of coffee that had been poured too long ago, of effort already spent before the day had properly begun.

There was a pause, not because the words were unclear, but because of what sat behind them. This was not an invitation in the usual sense. It was a recognition, an assessment disguised as a statement. He had watched long enough to understand how I operated, where I stepped in, where I filled gaps that others stepped around.

“They need someone like you,” he added, almost casually.

They. Not we. Not yet.

There are moments where a decision is made not through analysis, but through recognition. This was one of them. The questions that might normally follow, what it involved, how much time it would take, what it would mean in practical terms, never quite formed. They hovered briefly, like numbers waiting to be entered into a spreadsheet, before being dismissed in favour of something less precise but far more persuasive. It was not that the cost was invisible. It was that the instinct to contribute arrived before the discipline to measure it.

Beneath that instinct sat something more complicated than simple generosity. There was, undeniably, a quiet guilt in the inability to say no, a sense that declining would require an explanation that might not stand up to scrutiny, even my own. Saying no would have meant drawing a line, and lines, once drawn, have a habit of exposing how often they have been crossed before. It was easier, in that moment, to accept than to interrogate why acceptance felt inevitable.

And yet, it was not only guilt doing the work.

There was also an expectation, not spoken but deeply felt, that this was precisely the kind of space where giving could find a legitimate home. Rotary carried with it a reputation, an identity built around service, around the notion that effort expended here was not lost but redirected into something of value. If time was to be given, then this was a place that might justify the transaction. A place where the internal ledger, the one that keeps track of effort, obligation, and return, might actually balance in a way that made sense.

In that sense, the decision was not entirely passive. It was shaped by the belief that Rotary might be able to afford me, not financially, but in terms of purpose. That the hours spent, the energy committed, would translate into something tangible enough to offset the quiet erosion that comes with continual giving. It offered, at least in theory, a structure within which generosity could operate without becoming depleted.

The answer came, small and unremarkable in delivery.

“Alright.”

It felt light as it left the mouth, almost inconsequential, but it carried a weight that would only become apparent later, once it had settled among the other commitments already stretching across the edges of life. Because what had been accepted in that moment was not just attendance at a meeting, or involvement in a club. It was an unpriced obligation, entered into without full consideration, justified by a mix of guilt and hope, and left to find its place in a life that was already quietly full.

The first Rotary meeting bore little resemblance to the image that had formed in the mind. There were no sausages, no casual sense of hands-on charity. Instead, there was structure. Agenda. Minutes. A rhythm that had been repeated so often it had worn smooth with familiarity.

The room itself felt like an extension of that rhythm. The faint scent of carpet cleaner and oversteeped tea lingered in the air, chairs arranged with practical precision, tables set in a way that suggested function had long ago taken precedence over form. Everything about it spoke of continuity rather than change.

The language was familiar in intention, if not in tone. Service, community, projects, fundraising. Good words. Necessary words. Yet here they moved in a cadence that felt measured, procedural, almost rehearsed.

Introductions were brief. “This is Jeff. He’s an accountant.” The label settled quickly, carrying with it an unspoken expectation. In environments like this, function often arrives before identity.

It did not take long for that expectation to surface. “We could use some help with the books.”

There was an inevitability to it, as though the path from introduction to responsibility had already been mapped. The idea of starting with something tangible, something visible like a barbecue, faded quickly. The work began, as it often does, with numbers.

Three years passed before a pair of tongs ever found their way into my hands. By then, the accounts were already mine. The reporting. The quiet responsibility of ensuring that the numbers reflected what was actually happening, not just what was intended.

Numbers have a way of cutting through intent. They do not accommodate aspiration. They simply record what is.

A Treasurer became President in the way these things often happen, not through ambition, but through sequence.

“It’s your turn.”

The words were framed as inevitability rather than opportunity, part of a cycle that continued regardless of individual inclination. There was a brief moment of hesitation, not enough to disrupt the flow, but enough to register internally.

Time, after all, does not expand to accommodate new commitments. It is reallocated. Every hour given to one thing is taken from another, whether acknowledged or not.

Beyond the room, beyond the meetings and the structure, life continued in its own rhythm. Work did not pause. Family did not recede. The presence of my children remained constant, even when not directly in view, shaping the quiet arithmetic of how time was spent and where energy was directed.

The acceptance came nonetheless.

The Board listened, and in many ways that mattered. They were good people, committed to the ideals that brought them together, consistent in their willingness to give. There was a sense of stewardship about them, a quiet responsibility to maintain what had been built.

But listening is not always the same as hearing. Ideas were introduced, drawn from a different set of experiences, a different understanding of how communication and engagement might evolve. Marketing approaches, shifts in language, ways of reaching beyond the existing circle.

They were considered, acknowledged, sometimes even welcomed. And then, often, set aside in favour of what was known, although I have to admit that we did give some of my “zany” ideas a try. 

Change, even when recognised as necessary, carries its own resistance. It asks people to step away from certainty, to risk the comfort of established patterns. That is not an easy request, particularly in an environment built on continuity.

The tension that followed was not overt. It did not announce itself. It existed in small moments, in delayed decisions, in the slow pace at which new ideas took hold, if they took hold at all.

The description came eventually, delivered without malice but not without accuracy.

A brash upstart, But one was willing to put his money where his mouth was. There were times when I wrote for the monthly magazine with a call to arms gesture that was supposed to help us look for more members. There were times when my monthly persuasive report would ruffle some feathers. There were times when it was simply an angry outburst at the members, veiled in information and rhetoric designed to make people think. 

There was truth in it. Not in the tone, perhaps, but in the position. Challenging the way things are done inevitably touches on more than process. It touches on identity.

There were successes, moments where effort translated into visible outcomes.

Membership numbers increased during those years, not dramatically, but enough to suggest that movement was possible. It was a small shift, but in an environment accustomed to stability, even small shifts carried significance.

The recognition came in the form of a Paul Harris Fellowship, a gesture that held weight within Rotary circles. Accepting it brought with it a mix of gratitude and a quieter reflection on what exactly was being acknowledged. Contribution, certainly. Effort, undoubtedly. But also perhaps a willingness to give beyond the initial ask, to step into spaces that had not been clearly defined at the outset.

The projects were where purpose became tangible.

The Borgnis Street at Christmas light show transformed from decoration into something far more meaningful. The lights drew people in, and through that, funds flowed, over $50,000 each year directed to Bear Cottage. Numbers again, but this time carrying weight beyond the page, translating into real support for families facing circumstances few can fully comprehend.

The Trees of Joy expanded in both scale and impact, thousands of presents collected and distributed each year. It was logistical, complex, demanding, but the outcome was immediate and visible, a direct line between effort and effect. In my second year we expanded this program to assist the drought-ravaged central west of New South Wales, asking for vouchers for supermarkets. With some of these we actually purchased a trailer load of dog food for man’s best friend, who often in a drought situation gets ignored. 

The delivery of this load of gifts, dog food, and presents to Peak Hill was one of the most amazing and uplifting moments in my Rotary career. Belrose Rotary has had a long and fruitful time in its association with Peak Hill and the Peak Hill Central School. The adjunct of “See a Need, Feel a Need” for the purposes of the drought at the time was so enthusiastically received by the charity organisations of the area that it actually made more than just the local papers. 

It was a truly feel-good moment. 

The Peak Hill relationship introduced something different again. A program designed to prepare students for employment, to bridge the gap between education and the realities waiting beyond it. It aligned with a practical understanding that good intentions alone are not enough, that preparation requires structure if it is to be effective.

In these moments, the alignment between effort and outcome felt clear.

But alignment was not constant. The resistance to change remained, not as opposition, but as inertia. A preference for the familiar, a hesitation to adopt methods that sat outside established practice.

Ideas required explanation. Change required justification. Progress required persistence.

The effort became twofold, not just in executing projects, but in navigating the path to allow those projects to evolve. Over time, that dual effort began to draw more heavily on something less visible, something that did not appear in reports or minutes but was nonetheless real.

The cost accumulated quietly. The moment with Peak Hill arrived without drama, but not without significance. The program was no longer required. The reasoning was framed diplomatically, but the message was clear. The methods had not kept pace with a world that had moved forward, particularly in its adoption of digital approaches.

It was not a sudden realisation, but a confirmation of something that had been building over time. The reluctance to adapt, the slow integration of new ideas, had consequences.

Watching something you have invested in lose its relevance carries a particular weight. Not because the intent was flawed, but because the execution did not evolve quickly enough to sustain it.

Membership remained.

Even after moving away, the connection to the Club was maintained. Partly out of loyalty, partly out of a reluctance to start again, to embed within a new environment with its own dynamics and expectations.

The Club itself continues, now under the leadership of its youngest member, someone with both vision and the willingness to challenge the status quo. Observing from a distance, the patterns were familiar. The same tensions, the same slow movement of an organisation that does not change easily.

Rotary, for all its strengths, is a large and complex entity. Movement within it is possible, but rarely rapid.

Through all of this, the quiet arithmetic of time and energy remained constant.

Every meeting attended carried with it an absence elsewhere. Every project undertaken drew from the same finite pool.

The idea of Service Above Self retained its power, but it began to reveal its complexity. Because there is a point, not clearly marked, where service begins to draw too heavily, where the act of giving starts to erode the capacity to continue giving in a way that is sustainable.

That point is not fixed. It shifts, it requires awareness, and perhaps most importantly, it requires the willingness to recognise it before it is crossed.

Looking back, not as a conclusion but as part of an ongoing reckoning, the question that remains is not whether the decision to say yes was right or wrong, but something less certain, more difficult to resolve.

If service is to mean something beyond the moment, if it is to endure without diminishing the very person it relies upon, then where is the line between contribution and cost, and how do you recognise it before the giving becomes something you can no longer afford?