Today the father of my children celebrates a special birthday. Our children and his partner had been planning a celebration for months. The children went to Bunbury for a special surprise lunch on the weekend. People from his old workplace and other friends were there too, including his oldest son and his two children. It was the first time our son met his half brother, their sister instrumental in this memorable moment. This is something I dreamed about, for the three siblings, to generate a sense of family.
My son also wanted to do something special. He told his father to memoralise the event, he thought the two of them should build a piece of furniture, so he had something he could cherish. His father came to Perth earlier this week, they built a game table from scratch. It is the second piece of furniture they have made together. Over lunch yesterday I listened to our son talk about the memory of the experience. His father is due for major surgery early next year. Our son, it would appear, has taken over the role of main support person. It made all the past hurt insignificant.
I walked away from a marriage with nothing but holding the hands of little children. Even on days of struggle, I always believed I had the better deal. My only caveat was that their father stay in their life. To his credit, he honoured this while I worked hard for them to know, they were loved by both parents.
Our son is 27. He does not remember the days when his father lived at home with us. The marriage broke down when he was under three.
It is easy to rant and rave post divorce about who gets what and why. I recall the divorce settlement where lawyers spoke for us. Incensed by their arguments, which I felt disrespected all that was before the breakdown, I walked out. I made my own choice and declined a more equitable financial settlement. Despite being a student with limited money and even less time, my thinking was guided by maternal instinct. I trusted we would survive temporary financial hardship, but long term, the gains of peace, were immeasurable.
So on this day of celebration of his life. I am thankful to my ex husband for the gift of motherhood. The gift has been an ongoing experience of learning how to forgive and how to articulate being safe and loved in family. I believe we both achieved this as parents of little children, now young adults.
To those who struggle with distress, I’d recommend a peaceful resolution. I’ve found, when we let go of pain, love takes up so much more room in the heart.
So Happy Birthday Dr T. May you live the coming years in peace, comfort and happiness in the knowledge, your children love and respect you.
Despite our big feet we proved, we can still walk on water.
Acknowledging this, is my gift to you.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
The flowers are almost gone. At least the obvious ones. The grass is less green and more blond by early summer warmth. Some trees have shed leaves. They reminded me of chocolate curls, so I trudged around planning my Christmas menu. It helped keep happy thoughts forefront.
I don’t recall seeing these large shrubs before. They were everywhere and pretty in pink. That’s what I find so amazing about being in the bush. What looks ordinary one season, is eye catching, the next.
There were tall grass tree spikes bursting in flower. They look ordinary from a distance, just tall and white. Close up, well, a star studded sabre, comes to mind.
These flowers grow on flannel grey shrubs. There are thousands of these flowers in bloom, or waiting to bloom. Ordinary? Not to my eye.
There were a few of these still fresh and blooming. They are exquisitely tiny. And yet, each puff is several flowers within a flower. I kept walking up to it and could see it up close but stepping away, lost it numerous times in the grass. Got to get that shot became a mantra! Photography has taught me patience and persistence. 
And some were still beautiful, well past their bloom. I had to tripod my legs to steady my hands that shook with the delight of each little flower. The fragility! And, tenacity!
I heard strange sounds above me. Sounds I haven’t heard before. They, more than likely, came from young parrots, hiding in tree hollows.
I bought coffee in town and headed back to the Lair. I saw a young kangaroo family, three in a mob. The male, impressive! He was almost as big as a deer.
His face veiled by cobwebs, his gorgeous ears, twitching, alert. We were eye to eye for a few minutes, each sizing the intent of the other.
There were no small birds at all, but seeing these flowers growing profusely, who can complain.
On the way home I spotted this in Crossman, growing just off the road among a grove of shady trees.
I stopped my car to take some pictures, forgetting this is Western Australia in spring. I was covered in bush flies within seconds! If you only knew what I went through for this pic!
The Big Croc is the first thing you see as you enter the small town of less than 800 people. To quote the late Steve, Crikey! How did I miss this! It is so huge I couldn’t get the whole sculpture in the frame. 
Being off season, there was nothing open. The supermarket, too, shut early. Someone told us about a bakery, just down the road, they said. We soon saw the sign. We knew immediately, we were far from home.
This was outdoors on the way to the loo! Yes this is crocodile country, as if one could forget. There are reminders everywhere.
One of the things I wanted to show my travelling companion was the view from the Five Rivers Lookout. Because I had been here during the day, I was yearning to see it at sunset, too. I knew it would be amazing. The road up the the lookout, which is around 330 metres above sea level and the highest point of the town, is narrow and winding. The views across the mud flats, stunning. I’m surprised there are not more accidents as people peer over the edge.
We were taking in the sheer expanse of country where the rivers Ord, Pentecost, King, Durack and Forrest join forces to meld into the Cambridge Gulf. The waters must be teeming with crocs. There was an abattoir here once. The crocs remember this. They often hang around the jetty, although the abattoir closed its doors in the mid 1980s. We were taking in the views when I saw them. I could not believe my eyes. A tiny rock wallaby seated high above the town. Can you spot it on the rock between the two trees, just above the 2 in the date?
They were part of a small group, some as tiny as a cat. 
Their coats looked soft and fluffy with beautiful markings. Their feet dipped in dark chocolate.
The eyes large and luminous.
Look at that pose!
They were nimble among the high rocks and perfectly comfortable in our company.
One even sat facing us. Our delight, the evening’s entertainment, it would seem!
Soon it was sunset. The sun slipped away beyond the five rivers. 
A red disc dazzled in the darkened sky. It was time to leave.
The rainbow bee catcher is also quite unperturbed by human company. So I stayed with it for a while. Or, perhaps, it was the other way around.
It would hunch up just before launching off when it spied an insect in flight or hovering over the billabong.
The markings are gorgeous. Yet, the bird blends into the surrounds.
I usually find them high in the tree tops. 
Alert and watchful for the next tasty morsel.
So you would have excused my squeal of delight at finding this young one not far from the billabong among leaf debris.
To wake to this!
The cabins were fantastic. Clean and high among the tree canopy. It was reasonably secure and no geckos indoors! The place is so isolated. The managers told us they never lock anything here so I threw caution to the winds and slept with the door unlocked.
I woke early, too early, and headed to the walkway. The billabong was alive with birds and wildlife.
In this harsh landscape the green in trees was vivid.
As was the jewel like emerald green in the tree ants.
I’m not sure what this bird was. Researching it online it seems similar to the Asian Koel. But in the Kimberley? I’m not sure. It was black and navy blue with ruby eyes.
How’s this for perfect mirror image!
In this harsh landscape I found the most delicate jasmine like flowers on vines that entwined over the walkway.
Below me, a lone wallaby. I watched it nervously, hoping the resident saltwater crocodile was having a snooze.
I learnt later, this species is called ‘Pretty Face’ wallaby. It has delicate shading and a white stripe across the jawline.
This bird was magnificent! Some kind of pheasant I think.
The double barred finches swarmed water side.
As did the gouldian finches. Their colours were less vivid than the ones I’ve seen before.
Some had banana yellow beaks.
At first I thought the tree was shedding leaves!
Poised on the grassy bank.
Or feeding
The blues shimmer into indigo and purple when they move.
They are usually shy but also protective. Their warning call is a fearsome screech.
This was a rare sighting of a chick this spring.
My visit north will not be green. It will be encased in the fine red dust of the Kimberley.
I’m not scared of spiders at all, but I am of reptiles.
And (sensibly) scared of crocodiles.
Across the road from my hotel in Kununurra, my first stop, will be Celebrity Tree Park and Lily Creek Lagoon where I walk early morning, camera in hand. I love that this major highway is like a suburban side road.
There will be dragon flies with net wings teaching me to balance.
In groves of ancient boab trees, I’ll find a mother’s embrace, long overdue.
Despite the heat, I’m hoping there are lily filled billabongs, like ones I’ve seen before.
And migratory birds who are still calling the Kimberley home, before they fly.
The Gilbert’s dragon is known as the “ta ta” lizard and found in the hot Kimberley region, about 2000 km north of Perth. They run across hot surfaces, pausing to lift one leg off the ground and wave to cool it. before doing the same with the other. When not running and waving, they are still and bask in the sun.
The Welcome Swallows in Bunbury love the sun. In the mornings, they seem to prefer to do this than fly.
Then in Merredin, there’s the Magpie Lark, with the best vantage point in the gum tree to catch first light.
The young Pink Galah does not bask in anyone’s glory but its own as it gazes down at me at home.
There are honeymooners, basking in love, who race to kiss in dawn light, at Entrance Point, Broome.
While this backpacker threw caution to the wind at Wyalup Rocky Point in Bunbury as she watched the sun go down alone.
Much like her I enjoyed my solitude at Cable Beach, Broome.
Where I found, one heart warmed by sunshine, is better than an entwined pair scorched by rue.
The drive is on a lonely highway. The solitude in magnificent landscape, exhilarating.
We stopped for a few minutes rest to stretch our legs when in the far distance my zoom caught something on the horizon. So we drove towards it.
The memorial astonished us. It was huge. Did it start with just one stone? How did people know it was here?
And nearby a smaller, personalised memorial to loved ones, long passed.
As we left the area, in this desolate landscape a tree stood frozen. A silent reminder, it once danced in the breeze. So I take the cue.
I found the wildflowers were still blooming in the fields around the airport.
In a stiff breeze, the flowers rustled. It was music to my ears.
I know the Welcome Swallows love sitting on the rails, facing the sun. Sometimes they get used to my presence and accommodate my curiosity. I’ve learned to extend the lens only when they look away, as movement is always a signal for flight.
To my surprise I found some Swallows on the ground near my feet. 
Fear set aside, they were busy with nest building, focused on task.
A slight movement from the corner of my eye caught my attention, a fairy blue wren darting and hopping among the foliage. No matter how many times I see them, the flash of blue always makes my heart skip a beat. 
The male wren stood still for a moment. So perfect. It looked like an enamelled ornament, with blues upon blues found in sky and sea.
In contrast, the female’s beauty, is subtle. Perhaps this is nature’s intention.
While the male distracts she tends to her family, almost invisible, among debris.
The HMAS Sydney II Memorial is a place of quiet reflection. 
The HMAS Sydney II was lost off the coast of Western Australia in November 1941, taking all 645 lives with it. 
Each silver seagull, a memory. In that space of the dead, they fly free, forever together, in sky and sea.
She turns her back on the Eternal Flame, her frame larger than life, just slightly larger. The wind catches her dress. She holds on to her hat. That’s all she has for now. Her scan of sea, unwavering.
The powerful emotion written across her face, of concern and dare I say hope, is of a woman who has loved and lost.
A Shared Space 
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