I’ve been reflecting on the word ‘betrayed’ overnight. Initially, I thought it was the perfect word to vent but this morning I waited patiently for dawn before writing. It arrived as expected, in the sky, and in me.
There’s a predictability to life around me when I’m home. The currawongs, the kookaburras, the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of larger birds above as they fly to the lake. The excited screeching rainbow lorikeets, flying this way and that way. The cooing of the pair of doves that have a home in the back yard. The sweet fluted call of the willie wagtail. If I concentrated, the mild hum of the freeway in the far distance, before the sound of fridge took over. I allowed each to grab my attention, intermittently. Alone in the quiet of a big home, I did not feel betrayed, not even a hint of rancour. I realised how blessed I am for acknowledging I had the strength to go where the journey took me.
‘Till death do us part’, is part of the wedding vows, taken literally and certainly one I was raised with but came to realise, sometimes, one ‘dies’ while still breathing and for some, that’s when the love story comes to an end. Who ‘dies’ first is irrelevant but having the courage to move on, is.
A colleague recently mentioned, although there is sadness that my marriage ended, I have never spoken about my children’s father, with acrimony. Perhaps, this is why they have such a good relationship with him. I would have to agree. I now see their father through their eyes that have been untainted by mine. They see him as he is. Unplugged. They see the good in him, his humour, and still laugh and groan at his ‘dad jokes’. I can laugh with them too, his humour, his strength and attraction. It helps to keep the affection of early years remain warm as embers. They are careful with their words. They know he is sensitive, and that this is not always a strength in people. I observe how they navigate their relationship with him. They are more skilled at this than I but in those moments when they are less skillful, I step in and set boundaries on what can be said and when. I do this because I have a deep sense of gratitude towards him, that runs deeper than any disappointment I may feel about what we had, and didn’t. Together, we had children we are proud of, and it is on this common ground we have made our peace.
I’ve worked hard to practice the philosophy, what is meant to be, will be. This commitment to healing helps others too. The most consistent feedback I receive from people, is that I have helped them see things differently. Baggage checked, they are free to move on. I know I did and found …
The greenest growth is at the point of pruning.
Solitary can be a powerful statement.
I no longer look for permanence. Transience is appealing to me. What ebbs and flows, like the breath of life, is a gift. We see this in tides, sometimes shells, sometimes, a forest of boab trees in the sand. 
I also know a boab tree is strong, and will wait like a friend, withstanding tide and time.
At my leisure I read sea stories of ancient times, carved in stone.
I’ve learned lessons from migratory birds in flight. And, like them, I now travel light.
Cauterised, I now watch the tide soothe ruffled edges, as the pindan cliffs bleed into the sea.
My eyes scan roadside for three eyed monsters. They help reconnect to the child in me.
A red eye, is a ruby.
A ball of ruffled vivid feathers is gorgeous, but …
A single white feather, is peace.
May your Easter be one of renewal and hope.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
The Willie Wagtail is always great company.
The cape gooseberry bush has one or two lanterns at the moment. I’m not sure if it is the right time for it to fruit. My mother used to make the best gooseberry jam. The taste of fresh fruit is an indelible memory, so I eye it with anticipation.
The last of the autumn roses have found a space to peek through the fence. 
Although autumn is soon claiming them …
there’s still some summer left in leaves.
I’ve come to learn, when there are no roses, leaves and raindrops will do.
And, who knew that plain old snail, lived under a gilded roof.
Emus rule here. On wide empty streets, they slow you down. They are the traffic jam. The speed bump. I love them! Once at the local school, I even saw one checking out the children’s backpacks that were left outside class!
The sun rises over water here. And, as is true anywhere in the world, each day is always different.
Did I love the vivid colours of one day or the beautiful serene pewter shine, the next? I really cannot say. Both were equally breathtaking.
I love visiting Pebble Beach. The rocks come from the escarpment on the other side. The sea brings them in, and leaves them polished, and smooth. 
For me, these are the pearls of the sea. They are old. Smooth. Tactile. Melded. You feel the story in one’s hand.
This time I visited Jurabi Point Beach.
Was it worth it?
You bet!
Among the pebbles, knowing they are there, I always search for heart shaped stones. Why does the sea shape them so?
This one is for meditation. When adrift rudderless, at sea, it is a reminder. Like the tide, one always returns to shore.
The tiny Bolivian yellow squirrel monkeys were a delight. 
They clung to each other, surprised by early morning humans.
Oh! look at those fingers!
Another, poised, before jump.
Because you know me best, through my imagery and words.
In a noisy household, I was regarded as “a good child”. I never got in the way. I’m not quite sure how I managed that because I was curious about everything.
My children have taught me, they may have been raised with identical values, but they are individuals. Each with their own strengths and struggles. My role is to be aware of this and be the level playing field for them. I cannot attribute this thinking to my professional training. Nor can I give credit to how I was raised by my parents. I have become this kind of parent because I take time every day to visit that inner space, the sanctuary, where I am me.
I’ve found when dazzled by anything en masse
It is worth the time to stop and look closer. 
That scrub with white prongs in the distance, has its own delight.
I found these ‘roses’ …
bloom in the harshest environment.
Although I avoid orange drinks, sometimes it is worth to stop and gulp.
An enamel orchid will continue to shine, under the overhang.
At dawn the ‘bin chicken’ is equally beautiful with sea as backdrop
as it is stepping out of a pond at sunset.
Stone hearts may be invisible in people, until you rub them up the wrong way. The visible ones, left by Nature, are always beautiful because of their vulnerability. (I photographed this exactly as I found it).
Driving through the Midwest, I realised, why settle for a bunch of flowers when I can have a paddock. 
I’m always amazed to find pink in tough, mining towns. On reflection, given the volatility of the industry and profession, perhaps it is Nature’s way to symbolize hope. 
Every time I return from a trip, a neglected garden reminds me, it will continue to bloom, with or without my presence. A helpful reminder for ego, so I take notes.
There are no words to describe finding one’s first enamel orchid along a bush track but I’ll try. They look shiny and plastic. The crick in the neck from the double take was worth it! They are breathtakingly beautiful.
Likewise discovering that shaggy bush in Esperance, turns into a gorgeous waterfall acacia came as a surprise like no other one spring.
If one summons enough courage to visit Lesueur National Park early mornings, when there is no one else there but Nature, the drawcard is easy to see.
I found ‘kebabs’ of flowers there, too, so the gnawing hunger pangs make me return again and again.
Pom poms along bush tracks brings out the inner cheerleader, I never knew resided in me.
There’s infinite joy when a small bird allows you to keep it company.
In a still moment, unadorned simplicity, is where Nature does it best.
There’s a certain beauty to waiting before bloom. (I wish I knew this in my youth).
Rice crackers are found on the beach, if you look for them hungrily.
The sand dunes are not an obstruction between me and the ocean.
They are made from tiny shells and quartz. Each piece infinitesimal and exquisite.
A pesky weed is beautiful too.
A snail will climb steadily until it reaches the tree top. It’s all about pace!
Any cut, words or blade, can leave ragged edges.
I’ve found youth (mine!) and wisdom (my children’s!) can co-exist on the same branch of a tree!
Sometimes, you just have to stand still and allow the storm to pass, and it will, if your roots are strong.
I’ve learned the solitary fisherman on the rocks who wets the line at dawn, has done this many times before. He does it for the pleasure, not because he expects a bite.
Likewise the surfer, as he strides out board under arm, to the open sea.
There he’ll sit, with like minded folk, waiting for that set to arrive.
And when it does, he’ll take me with him on that magic carpet ride. 
I found some mornings when the sea is muted, wild dolphins will weave their way through the calm and leave my knees weak with sheer delight of it all.
I’ve found in small mining towns, when there’s not a soul to be seen at midday, even a kangaroo can stop by and crack open a can, to chill with you.
And, if you don’t drink. You can still see double.
In winter, when all else has faded away, a fig is vivid with colour.
A beach is a beach. It does not need a me and a you, to tell a story of romance.
I don’t need to travel to Mallee country. There are times when the ringneck will visit me to check out how I live.
No longer a lead foot. I slow down and enjoy the curves that life throws up at me now and then. I’ve learned those are moments, to see past the obstruction and see the forest, as it is meant to be.
Yes, I found patience. It was always at my feet, in the Here and Now.
With thousands of photographs to catalogue, I don’t know the names of the wildflowers I photograph. Do I really need to? They say what they need to say.
I’ve found a pink banksia cone in a national park in Jurien Bay. They usually range in shades of gold and orange, so a pink one, is sheer delight.
I’m not sure of this plant either that sprouted long prongs of flowers, but I feel I’ve looked right into the heart and found nothing but smaller things that made it bigger.
And, the wild spider orchid, Mardi Gras flamboyant in bloom, always finds a place to perform, in a dense forest.
Much like the kangaroo paw, still, poised in mid-bloom.
Then there are purple flowers, with trails of happy tears, after the rain.
There are others, who make me peer even closer to look at the tinier bloom, within bloom.
There are plain, pristine pure white blooms, like angels that brighten gloom.
Pom poms with individual exquisite flowers, the detail within them, beyond description.
And trigger plants that swing in the breeze, like joyful children, in a playground.
Like a bird that sits quietly while her eggs incubate beneath her, my father would listen to my endless questions, pause thoughtfully and ask, “what do you think?” I always had an answer or five and when I didn’t, I’d scurry to find a book with the answer and return back to him, brimming with information.
I did a double take and zoomed in. I wasn’t alone! My heart pounded in excitement.
I zoomed in as slowly as I could.
And, closer, again.
And again.
The next morning, I headed out to the reserve again. The air was alive with tweets and flapping wings of the larger birds over the lake.
I’ve found mother and child stay together, as long as necessary for survival.
Wait long enough, tide and time will make rocks crumble.
When exploited, the earth bleeds red.
In the harsh Pilbara mining region, if you look hard enough, there is an oasis outside the door.
And in the red dust of the Goldfields, nuggets are found in the scrub.
A Wheatbelt sunset is more beautiful, when a solitary silhouette gives it perspective.
Wake early enough, the party has started with a festoon of pink galahs on gum trees.
In the Midwest, the white heron is always poised.
But the pelican can have an inelegant moment or three.
In Esperance, the solitary seek the sea, as friend.
Once past prime, a flower is still beautiful, when it hits the pavement.
When admonishment is necessary, the Willie Wagtail is never far away. 
If one’s lucky, the sea eagle may look you straight in the eye.
“She refused to say goodbye, It had a finality. A brutality. It was a point of reference. It had the power to define what was before it and all that came after. So she found a way to say goodbye, framed within a eulogy to friendship. After all, memories are meant to keep one warm, make one smile and soften the ragged edges. Or do they? 
I was in the outback, far north, staying at a cattle station just before the mustering began.
Standing by the corral at dawn, I didn’t notice him while he worked, so entranced was I, by it all. 
But when he stood patiently waiting for toast to turn brown, sipping billy tea from a tin mug, “g’day” escaping from the corner of his mouth, he caught my eye. 
He had an aura. It was how he worked the horses, that made him unique.
He sat down slowly, as if in pain, guitar cradled in his lap, a beer clenched in a calloused fist. His feet were bare, untouched by the sun they glowed infant pink. His arms were also bare, nut brown and muscled from reining in, a black bandana around his head, adding colour. He took a thirsty swig, leaned over and placed the bottle on the grass in the space that separated us.
He travels the world, searching for the horse that no one can ride. For him, life and love, is that simple.
A Shared Space 
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