Author: dawnbirdau

Today is the first day of spring!  I woke early and savoured the moment.

The word ‘spring’ is joyous in any context.  Flowers have appeared in thousands where ever one looks.  For the last two weeks the park down the street has been overrun by the birds.  The Wood Ducks are guarding a patch of grass from animals, birds, and people.  I suspect their family is hidden there.  Across to the pond, the other Wood Duck family have hatched.  Fluffy and gorgeous!   They have kept a smile on my face long after I encounter them on my walk.  The Black Swan is stunning.  Seeing me approach the lake he swims off regally to his mate.  Together they guard their cygnets.  I’m surprised to see they are born white!  There is so much I don’t know.  The Little Corella look splendid as they saunter along the grass.  They are fearless.  I walk under canopies of them.

In my garden the jonquils are blooming in clusters like a mop of curls on a child’s head.  The honeysuckle catches the morning light.  The jasmine is budding.  The giant mulberry tree is a tangle of limbs.  A tiny green speck signals growth, and gives hope.

That’s what spring means to me.  Hope.  It is a generous gift from Nature in an annual reminder.  What is buried deep in the darkest of winter, will push through, will rise, will bloom, will be beautiful again.

I want to bottle the quiet moment I experienced this morning so I can open it anytime in the future, like an unexpected gift.  With curiosity, with happiness, with hope.  It is where the child in me lives.  It is a place worth revisiting.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

 

What makes us wiser?  Curiosity or wisdom?  Perhaps, this reflection is a chicken or egg question.

I have returned home to a park that is alive.  The birds have taken over.  (More pictures to come).  The wood duck has nine ducklings, hatched last week.  Out of the nine, two are constantly by each other’s side.  For ease of reference, I identify them as ‘The Twins’.  Then, there is one.  Solo.  Adventurous, curious, brave.  Always out doing her own thing.  I can relate to this little one!

After a recent storm I could not find the duck family.  I scanned the edge of the pond without success.  Then, mother shifted her weight and I saw eight ducks were tucked safe under her wings.  And, there was Solo.  Looking around at the world as it unfolded before her.  The Little Corellas were scrambling noisily for best position among the tree tops.  Bravely, she stood and watched the commotion.  A moment so precious!  At the other end of the spectrum was an old Corella.  The Sage.  Silently watching life as it was for him, in another time, in another space.  Right now, content to watch, he had no issues with the other birds.  And, they let him alone.  Broken beak, and all.

Life for me is like that.  A curious child, long before the internet, I poured over books.  I wanted to know what, when, why, and how.  But, there are times I sit back and watch.  Silently.  I watch life unfolding as it is meant to be.  And, I’m not disappointed.

Has the curious child learned there is value in this?  I’m not sure whether this is wisdom.  But if I were to answer the question in a word, it is a resounding, “Yes”!

I’m off again.  Life has been busy.  But, not too busy to share Solo and the Sage, with you.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

My work promotes objective observation.  From that perspective, there is value in this.

But I have found, the value gained from observation, is also subjectively immeasurable.  Nature has taught me this.  Unexpected value.  And, delight.  Delight in those still moments between movements.  Between sounds.  Between words.  Between people.  Fleeting stillness.  A moment so silent, it captures all senses in one scoop.

I found this on one of my trips to the southwest region of Western Australia.

While enjoying the activity around me I noticed some birds take time out.  Mindfully.  They observe.  Sometimes, for a nanosecond.  And, when I’m trying to capture the moment, they take time to observe my fumbling attempts!  Zooming in on a New Holland honeyeater I found they have a slender tube like structure at the end of their beak.  Exquisitely slender and delicate, no doubt functional for dipping deep into flowers for nectar.  Always dazzled by their striking plumage, I had never noticed this before.  Panning around me I saw a bird, larger than a silver eye and somewhat similar to the honeyeater.  Unusual.  Almost hybrid-like.  Alone it darted about anxiously among flocks of other species.  It finally flew down briefly before me.  A white naped honeyeater!  Beautiful!  I’ve been to this garden cafe a few times before.  What else did I miss?  The old ‘dunny’ (outdoor toilet of a bygone era) listing along with trees that suggested, the winds from the ocean blows strong.  Within the crumpled paper white petals of the poppy, bees dusting themselves in yolk yellow pollen.  They seem to know, spring is nearly here.  And, there were diamonds strewn across the humble nasturtiums leaves, seen by only those who rise early, before sun, the thief.

There is a difference between looking and observing.  A gap as wide as talking and listening.  There is power in observation, as there is in silence.  But, only if it is practiced mindfully.

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

The first time I visited Kooljaman a friend drove me up from Broome, and we stayed for sunset.  I knew immediately I also wanted to experience waking up at Kooljaman (Cape Leveque) one day.

Kooljaman is the Aboriginal name.  A remote wilderness camp it is run by Aboriginal people and tourism is seasonal here due to the weather.  We checked in when it was already dark after a rough ride on dirt tracks with no lighting or directions.  Silence kept us company for the best part of the drive and in retrospect, reflected our concern about getting bogged.  Once at camp we soon realised the sliding door lock was broken in the cabin.  We were expected to sleep in an unlocked room where there is no phone service.  Reassured by management we were perfectly safe, it was an uneasy night.  We put a broken broom in the door for some semblance of safety.  We are city folks after all!  My anxiety heightened every time I heard rustling outdoors, knowing it was something that slithered.  I sat up in bed well before dawn and waited for light.  My excitement to see the first rays over the northern most part of the Dampier Peninsular overcame all fears.  Soon I dressed in semi darkness, ignored the rustling outdoors and headed out with camera in hand.

I was surprised to see how basic the camp was, but thrilled to be outdoors.  The only human out at that hour as far as I could tell.  But, I was not alone.  I followed a wallaby’s prints into the bush but could not spot it.  I then headed to the beach, the markings of bird and snake, unmistakable in the dirt.  The land here is red.  Against an azure sea, it is stunning.  The cliffs have been stroked by the sea, leaving tell tale striation that is beautiful.  The first light over Western Beach was breathtaking.  Soon the air was alive with birdsong.  Almost impossible to see in the canopy, they went about their business of dipping into flowers for nectar.  The double barred finches were at my feet, finding breakfast in the scrub.  A tiny honeyeater, and I mean tiny, sat and watched the world wake.  A magnificent, huge wedge tail eagle glided above like an airliner.  The warmth of the day brought out the Gilbert’s Dragon, the rocks providing a perfect backdrop.  And, against the harsh beauty of the Kimberley, one of my favourite flowers found in this region, the boab flower, bloomed.

This is a place where whales come to calf in the pristine waters.  It is rich in history.  It is rich in spirit.  It enriches one’s spirit.  It is a place where one wants to see the footprints of Nature, but reluctant to leave anything else but one’s heart behind.

I will return.  Next time, for longer.

As always

a dawn bird

 

I have been to Kooljaman (Cape Leveque) twice in the last three years.  And, will return to this remote, incredibly beautiful part of Western Australia, about 220 kms north of Broome.  It leads to beautiful Cygnet Bay and the pearl farm I wrote about earlier.  Along the way are small Aboriginal communities of Lombadina, Beagle Bay, Middle Lagoon, and One Arm Point.  I will post photographs of these places later.

The road out of Broome is sealed and then there is approximately 90 kms of unsealed road.  We went in the wet season after the area received heavy rains a couple of weeks before our trip.  In the wet season the road often closes for obvious reasons.  With only seaplane or light aircraft or boat to take people to Broome, the area becomes inaccessible by road.  Not wanting to get cut off, my travelling companion and I kept a wary eye on the latest weather reports.

In December the heat was intense but it dried up the rain soaked roads for the best part of the journey.  The road was powder sand in some areas, in others, it was like chocolate mousse.  My travelling companion’s driving skills in our hired 4WD were tested, but we made it out the other end and back again without drama.  At times, a solitary car in the opposite direction made its presence known by a cloud of dust.  The road shared by both cars climbing the ridged edges to find firmer ground was a carnival ride.  Our bones rattling in heavily corrugated earth kept us silent for short bursts while we noted tombstones of cars at eye level.  I would never travel this road unless I had utmost confidence in my companion’s driving skills.

Travelling as a colleague, as I do with a range of people to these far and remote areas, I follow an interesting routine.  If nominated to go here, I tell management who I want to travel with.  I want someone who is resourceful, who is dependable, who thinks on their feet and is trustworthy.  Someone who is resilient.  I also enjoy travelling with someone who enjoys a good glass of wine and meal but equally is comfortable with water and a muesli bar if there is nothing edible available.  Someone who is not twee and will see the journey as an adventure.

This leads me to reflect …

If life is a journey, who do we choose as our travelling companion?  Do we choose someone we can trust?  Someone we can feel emotional, physically, intellectually and psychologically safe with?  Someone who is good company and a good conversationalist? Someone who is able to communicate in silence as comfortably as with language?  Strikingly, money, physical appearance, age nor status are part of the selection criteria.  At the core of this concept is friendship and companionship.  I regret not knowing this earlier in life.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

 

The first of August is always a difficult day for me.  It is the anniversary of my father’s death.  He was with me in spirit all day and I was relieved when work ended so I could have some solitude with my thoughts.  As I walked up the driveway I noticed a solitary snowdrop.  The first early sign of spring, in winter.

There are many symbolisms associated with the snowdrop.  Blooming at the end of winter and signalling spring, naturally, they are thought to represent hope and rebirth.  On the other extreme, some say, even death.  Seeing the first bloom today on the anniversary of my father’s death, I rejoiced.  The flowers were planted by the previous owner and each year I eagerly wait for them to appear.  Today, it felt like a gift from him, to me.  I love these flowers.  Now, even more.

My father was an intelligent man who enjoyed reading.  Books or a cryptic crossword puzzle were telltale signs he was close by.  Legs crossed at the knees, pen in hand, he would peer over his glasses briefly at the world around him.  Deeply interested in politics he hated systemic corruption with a passion.  His best advice to me was to be honest with my taxes.  It would help me sleep well at night!  I follow his advice, and do!  He adored my mother to the end.  She was well loved and respected in the community.  He was more reserved but equally respected.  When he died, as the hearse went through the main street, the shop owners stood outside like a guard of honour.  For a man who was humble, the memory of their show of respect is something that does not fade with time.

During my last year of high school he would wake with me at dawn, make us a cup of tea and while I nested in a bundle of blankets to study for my exams, he would quietly complete a crossword.  When he found I had fallen asleep, he would wake me gently.  He was a pharmaceutical salesman for a major company and travelled extensively in my early childhood.  He would always return with a small gift or biscuits for me.  I would wait every day for his return.  Sometimes, it was months.

My father never got to see my children or enjoy the fruits of my success.  It is something I yearn to share with him.  The little girl in me still waits for him.

I’ve come to realise, when you love someone, waiting is not a difficult thing to do.

As always,

a dawn bird

I woke startled.  The clock flashed 3.27 am.  A freight train was going through the home.  The pressure within was intense.  It lasted no more than three minutes.  The wind, the rain, the hail.  It took that long to orient myself to the moment.  The cold front promised for the South West region had crossed further north.  I lay awake for the next few hours trying to visualise myself somewhere else.  Cygnet Bay, some 2300 plus kms north of Perth, on the Dampier Peninsular, came to mind.

Around 220 kms north of Broome, about half of the distance on unsealed, corrugated road, the trip to the Cygnet Bay Pearl Farm is a must do.  And, in my opinion, more than once.  Privately owned for seventy years it is a mixture of the old and the new.  The passion of the previous generations, still palpable, in the current one.  The landscape is untouched.  Red (pindan) earth, grey green foliage and the bluest skies and seas.  The air is clean.  There is a serenity here that makes me want to return.  This morning, only in mind.

The drive into the pearl farm is flanked by mango trees.  The Bay is edged by mangroves.  Water, mangroves, the Kimberley Region, usually equate to crocodiles.  Caution is never over estimated.  I’ve been here twice with others.  I still feel like I missed too much.  I want to return to see detail.  Like seed pods on the beach.  Clear pools where mangroves take hold.  The infinity pool is relatively new and perhaps, one of the more modern additions, yet blends beautifully with the landscape.

I absolutely love pearls.  My mother always wore them.  I do too.  I’m aware they are created by discomfort, an irritant.  But then, isn’t life much like this?  It is from discomfort that we grow.

Until next time,

As always

a dawn bird

I returned home last night from the Goldfields.  Predictably, the flight to Kalgoorlie departed an hour later than scheduled.  On arrival the airport seemed somewhat busier.  I hear European accents that I have not heard here before from men dressed in smart business clothing and beautiful shoes.  This is in stark contrast to the high viz clothing and steel capped boots that get removed when walking through Security.  The taxi driver asks me if I have arrived for the Diggers and Dealers Convention, a big event in the calendar around these parts that starts next week.  Suddenly, the unfamiliar makes sense and I return to what is my usual routine here.

Next day the morning goes quickly.  Too quickly.  I need a break.  I drive to the tree park in my lunch hour.  It is the only solitude I get in a busy day.  Shifting mental gears constantly is taxing.  Much to my surprise and disappointment the Arboretum is crowded.  Once into the small car park, I am stuck in a traffic jam of stationary cars.  There are scores of people around.  A closer examination of the crowd reveals they are not from out of town.  These are local teens and adults in their 20s and 30s.  These are Pokemon Go hunters.  I am annoyed!  This is MY park in lunch hour!  I am usually here on my own with just the birds and gum blossom.  To find people intent on looking at their phones instead of enjoying what Nature provides here, is a travesty.  I leave immediately after the drivers in front of me reluctantly look away from their phones and allow their cars to crawl to the left.  To soothe my annoyance I decide to visit again after work and, much to my disappointment, there were more people here!

There is an art and science to being alone and yet, with people, with community.  I recall a visit to Esperance.  Standing at dusk at the top of West Beach I noticed a sole surfer emerging from the sea.  He stood for a while looking at an object in his hands then headed to the small pool near him.  He climbed into it.  As the waves rolled in, childlike, he rolled with it.  Submerging himself and then sitting up, his back to me.  He did it several times.  I was curious.  Perhaps he was fishing or looking for molluscs.  Then, a tiny glow caught my eye.  He communicated in an unmistakable ‘rock on’ gesture either in a selfie or to someone on the screen.  His delight was contagious.  And, shared immediately.  He then rolled into another wave, disappearing for a few seconds, at one with the sea.

Perhaps I am from a different generation.  I use technology to see the world, not find the world in it.  It is heartening, there are others, who do too.

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

After heavy rains, my anxiety of flying to Esperance in a small plane was heightened.  The airport was crowded with miners.  I thought either flights were cancelled or else I have caught a swing shift mid week.  With no logo identifying my airline on one of the three gates, for a fleeting moment I wondered if I had arrived at the wrong airport.  Then I saw a queue of people, young and old, in wheelchairs, on crutches or supported by walking sticks.  Folks who had come to the city for treatment, returning home.  It confirmed, the short queue was for Esperance!

On arrival it was surprising to see Esperance dimly lit in the afternoon.  Cresting the ridge at the highest point in town and under the canopy of dark clouds was the familiar panorama of Dempster Head at West Beach.  It never fails to take my breath away.  A favourite spot for young teen surfers who seem to brave any weather.  With barely an hour of sunlight I made the most of my time outdoors with camera, despite being bent in half by icy winds.  Next morning it was a quick drive to the other side of town, to Wylie Bay, another favourite spot for surfers.  Flanked by rural properties and scrub the birdlife here is prolific but unfortunately, due to weather, they remained sheltered.  So it was just the magnificent horse, standing still, a silhouette of perfection in the early morning sun.  Little did I know that was the last I would see of the sun until the weekend.  It rained and the winds howled in rage for two days.

After an extraordinarily busy two day schedule, I went to bed at 12:30 am after setting my alarm.  I was flying home next morning and the party of contracted road workers in my block, were not.  At 6:29 am, as is my habit, I woke a minute before my alarm went off.  Mindful of their hangovers, I rolled over quickly to switch it off.  The momentum carried me off the bed.  I landed with a resounding thud on the floor, my right calf now in the teeth of a vicious cramp.  Lying on the carpet, helpless with laughter and pain, I could only wish for a better day!  And, it was.  The sun was out and I had a window of a few minutes to walk down to Museum Park before check out.  The pond is always interesting but this morning I found solitude among the trees.

On this trip I saw Esperance as many other people see it with a shudder.  Wild, windy and cold.  It is my first experience of real winter here, despite visiting at least once a month, for several years.  It was a different space.  I realised Esperance has many seasons in a day, even in summer, but there are some familiar self-designated spaces where I am enchanted time and again.  I carried that perspective with me, determined to replicate this in my home.

So, with help from my young family yesterday, I am now in a study that faces East.  I have desk space of 12 feet.  Interestingly with more space, I have gone minimalist.  There is no clutter.  There is a place for everything and everything is in its place.  Overlooking the roses, the former study is now the library, a room where I can truly relax.  With these changes, not yet 24 hours old, my home is casting a spell.  I am enchanted with my home, my space, already.

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

 

Bridgetown, is some 250 km in the South West of Western Australia.  You head down to Bunbury, a two hour drive on a straight highway and then turn east.  Another hour or so of winding, undulating roads, flanked by orchards and farmland and you arrive at Bridgetown, a quiet, staid place known for its annual Jazz Festival.  I love this town.  It has historic architecture with many of the buildings on the main street being over 100 years old, rolling hills, excellent pub food, a renowned cidery and busy theatre.  It has an air of rural gentility that is palpable.

Winter in Bridgetown is cold but made warmer by splashes of sunshine yellow acacia that bloom on tall trees or hedges, wherever you look.  Quite stunning!  One of my favourite stops is near the river where a historic property, now a 5 acre bed and breakfast place.  The barn is a treasure trove of goodies and where you can always find Christmas ornaments.  The entrance is highlighted by the quirky pig statue.  The property eases down into the Blackwood River and where the geese are usually found.  I stopped here for respite from the storm on the way home, to find flower berries hung like a chandelier in the rain.  Then saw the geese.  For a split moment, their stillness, their perfection made me think they were garden ornaments!  The success of this historic place rests with the owners who have been excellent custodians of this property.  Their research has kept the history alive.  Sadly, the husband passed away two years ago.  I missed his presence.  It is a big business to manage single handedly and a responsibility that his wife has assumed with grace.  I felt a huge sense of empathy for her.

No sooner had I pulled away when the rain came down again and I sought refuge in another car park.  Thinking about my conversation a few minutes earlier about death and grief, I had time to think about my own mortality.  I’ve updated my will but had to decide what I wanted done with my ashes.  I always thought I’d like them scattered in the ocean.  But when talking to my children they reminded me I’m afraid of water!  My son then suggested, why not in the forest where one is always surrounded by birds.  How perceptive of him!  Yes, I am happy surrounded by birds.  I look for them.  I’m delighted by their behaviour.

As if in response to my thoughts, the sun had a ta da moment.  The rain stopped.  Glancing out the window I noticed a slight movement among the leaves and zooming in found it was a wren, but not blue.  Hopping nearby was a silvereye, eating insects that dropped off the acacia.  Exquisite!

My son is right.  When I pass, my spirit will always be free because I will be resting on the wings of birds.

As always,

a dawn bird

 

Cape Leeuwin is the most south western tip of the continent of Australia.  The coast is wild, rugged and beautiful.  Just over 50 kms from Margaret River, it is one of my favourite places to visit whenever I head this far south from Perth.

Yes, the Leeuwin Lighthouse is spectacular.  It sits at the point where the Southern and Indian Oceans meet.  Built in the late 1800s, the Lighthouse as well as the cottages inhabited by those who tended it, are a must see in this region.  I visit the Lighthouse almost out of a sense of duty, because the tourist brochure says I must.  But I am always more eager to visit the nearby Water Wheel.

Leaving the Lighthouse there is no sign to the Water Wheel.  The sign is visible only as you are entering it.  Dazzled by the coastline is it possible people forget to visit this little pocket of historical importance as they leave.  I know to take the first left off the sealed road and onto graded dirt track, a short distance to the small car park.  It is rare to find people here.  The first time I found this place I watched a seagull spa happily in the spring.  Then I found a pair of rubber thongs, neatly placed on the rocks.  I knew I wasn’t alone.  I never did find the fisherman.

The Water Wheel is fed by the fresh spring.  This is limestone country, so the wheel has calcified over the years.  It was life for the keepers of the Lighthouse.  The spring is audible even against the roar of giant surf.  I love this little area.  It is full of history.  In the stillness of thought, you can almost hear children’s laughter.

I visited a day when there was a break in winter storms.  Perhaps that is why I found no birds except for the solitary Sooty Oystercatcher, looking spectacular in black with vivid orange eyes and beak.  It ignored my presence as it continued with the forage on rocks.

Whenever I visit the Water Wheel I feel like I’m visiting a rich indulgent relative because there is something generous about a fresh spring.  Despite storm clouds above, it gurgles like laughter.  It has an energy.  A visual reminder.  Life.

With one last look and a deep breath, I reluctantly left the Water Wheel as I watched cars in my rear view mirror.  They drove away from the area without turning left.  Sadly, they don’t know what they missed.

Until next time

As always,

a dawn bird

 

I have returned home after less than two days in Manjimup.  This is tall timber country that hosts a cherry festival in summer and more recently, the area is becoming known for black truffles.  It is a small community.  People immediately recognise one from being out of town.  The talk is always light and friendly and ends with a warm, “have a safe journey home”.  This time, the farewell had special relevance.  The winds were strong, with constant rain.  Starting my return journey, I was exactly 333 kms from home.  The thought of driving along winding roads flanked by tall old timber in a storm, was daunting.  And, it was.

Despite the rain I found a few moments early morning to walk in the Timber Park while waiting for breakfast.  The only protea, just waiting to bloom, shone bright like a torch in the sombre day.  I had not noticed before, the colours of the native flowers, the pink gum blossoms, the delicate vine growing Flame pea flower, and yellow wattle which I will post later, were more vivid.  To match this, the wings of the New Holland honeyeater and the underbelly of the Red Western Wattlebird were a brighter shade of yellow.  The white breasted robin, shy, quiet and non-descript, was just as beautiful.  It stayed with me in the deep shrub, watching me with curiosity, but just out of reach of my lens, to get that perfect picture.  They are shy, co-operative birds that help each other.  I am always surprised and delighted when I see one.  They are so silent in the scrub and I find them by movement alone.  By that I mean, the slightest movement of leaves, signals their presence.  In contrast, the wattlebirds and honeyeaters are noisy and are always in company.  While eating breakfast I noticed a honeyeater clinging to the edge of the canvas canopy, waiting for the insects to roll towards its beak!  In a garden of plenty, it found a different way, an ingenious way, to feed.

It was an interesting thing to observe the honeyeater on the anniversary of the day when I resigned from secure government employment, to venture into the unknown world of small business.  In the last few years, like the honeyeater, in a garden of plenty, there are times I have to be creative.  There are times when I just have to hold on.  But, at all times, I know, I have a strong backup plan.  My faith gives me wings.

May your day be blessed by what you see and experience.

As always,

a dawn bird

 

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Mention Meelup Beach and you’ll get a predictable, “Oh! it’s beautiful!” response from those who have visited this region.  Located some 250+ kms in the southwest region of Western Australia, it is a small beach that spills off parklands of gum trees.  There have been times we have seen kangaroos nibbling on grass nearby.  While my daughter and her boyfriend scoured the beach, I was, of course, chasing birds when I saw something starkly white in a tree.  I zoomed in and was delighted to see a kookaburra sitting silently.

Kookaburras are large but squat looking birds.  They are fluffy and have a huge beak.  They have an intelligent look in their eyes.  They are master hunters and target food with great accuracy.  Their flight is surprising silent.  Like unrequited love.

We left Meelup Beach and headed towards Castlerock, shimmering in the distance.  I had never been to that area before.  But as I had company for part of this holiday and young people adventurous to explore new places, I’ve found another ‘must visit again’ place.

This region of Western Australia has a charm of its own.  There is a gentility and grace that comes from a combination of tall timber and bluest water.  Living in Eagle Bay is for millionaires, I’m sure.  We came across fabulous homes tucked away in bushland, yet, just across from the water.  But give me a tent under those peppermint gum trees so I can wake to the laughter of kookaburras, and I would be the richest girl in the world.

I’m off to taller timber country today in the south west, but this time, further away from the coast and headed east.  It will be cold there!  It is cherry country in summer, and in winter, well known for the much sought after truffles.

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

Her name is Layla.  A name that immediately conjures up romance and mystery.  If your eyesight is sharp enough, she is seated way beyond on the rocky outcrop, somewhere in the middle.  She does not move and her immobility catches my eye.  I drive around from Prevelly Beach, surfing mecca, to Rivermouth.  I inch closer, mesmerised by the bronze sculpted by Russell Sheridan.  Naked, calm, serene even, as the previously blue sea churns, froths and foams milky waves around her.  I’m not sure about the symbolism and I find nothing while researching it.  Perhaps, Sheridan has left it open to personal interpretation.

I approach her side on.  There is something exquisitely powerful, yet gentle about her.  Angular in face, stern, ordinary, her limbs in bronze are softened by motherhood.  She cradles the baby whale with ease.  Her profile is relaxed.  Her feet neatly crossed at the ankles.  The baby is weightless as it nuzzles at her breast.

Plain and simple, she is mother.

I love sculpture.  It is tactile.  Evocative.  And, every so often, I stumble upon something that is monstrous in size, yet it has the delicacy, the poise, of a mermaid.  A place to revisit.  For sure.

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

Make no mistake!  The Splendid Blue Fairywren is aptly named.  It is splendid!  Quick, ethereal, tiny and exquisitely beautiful, I knew they lived under my holiday chalet.  I had seen them there on previous visits but was never able to photograph them.  They prefer foraging among leaves early morning or late at dusk and almost impossible to see.  But on my recent holiday to the south west I decided to visit a cafe, some 30 kms from my chalet where they are also found in the garden.

On a bitterly cold morning, I missed a turn and got lost, and some 70 kms later, I found the property.  A large property where berries, avocados and grapes grow.  The cafe is quaint and utterly captivating.  Tiny wrens and silvereye are noisy companions.  I spent hours over a coffee and took hundreds of photographs.  I could hardly wait to share them with  you!

The males’ brilliant plumage brightens in time for mating season.  The females remain drab grey with a pale blue tail feather.  Their vanity is subdued.  They say the blue fairy wren represents infidelity and promiscuity.  They are social birds and pair for life.  But, male and female, are also sexually promiscuous.  It is oxymoronic.  Yet, it works in their world.

I am learning more about nature, more than I ever have, my entire life.  It is a learning that grounds me.  There are things that work to a formula in nature.  Some things just are.  Some things are meant to be.  I’m learning, this also happens in life.  In my life.

Until next time

As always,

a dawn bird