Category: musings

In response to Fandango’s Provocative Questions #152

“I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy.” Rabindranath Tagore

In my teens and twenties I worked as a secretary, mostly in research settings, later finding myself working as an assistant to the Executive Dean at the local university. A few months into my job, the professor I worked for insisted I enrol in an undergraduate degree. I was accepted into university the day I found out I was pregnant with my second child. The next few years were a blur with a busy job, young family and a marriage that was soon falling apart at the seams. Studying gave me the anchor and focus I needed during some very challenging years. I went on to do a doctorate in my field and like all new graduates hoped to get a tenured government job in mental health.

That was my plan. The universe had a better one.

I went out on my first practicum, paired with a physiotherapist, to a family who had a young toddler with special needs. He was profoundly disabled and not expected to see his fifth birthday. He was a ‘surprise baby’ for a family that had older teens. They basked in the light this child brought into their home and hearts. I left their home, with some of light in me.

Working in the area of special needs was never in my career plan. I knew little about it and to be honest, the university curriculum skimmed barely a unit in this complex area. I went on to work in mental health and other areas including rehabilitation for those with spinal cord injury where sadly most of the patients were once active people who faced a new reality. My much yearned for job came about finally but due to a restructure I found myself working with minimal staff to support people with complex mental health issues (schizophrenia, psychosis etc). It was a stressful job.

Around this time I was on a brief holiday in Broome, stood on the hotel balcony with a camera, my first camera incidentally, and took over 300 photographs of the sunrise over Roebuck Bay. As the sun rose, I recall thinking, “leave the ordinary behind”. When I got back to Perth I found I had taken this photograph. It remains an inspiration for me. A moment caught, not a moment too soon or too late, much like a golden opportunity.

I never walked away from special needs. I continued to have a small private practice in the area from the time I completed my degree. I returned to Perth and went into full time private practice.

My work takes me to the whole length and breath of Western Australia. I have travelled to remote outback to communities and experienced Australia not many get to experience. This lifestyle is addictive. I yearn for those wide open spaces, the red dust, the starry canopy at night, the acres of wildflowers that bloom in spring. The utter breath taking moments watching a wedge tail eagle, big as an airliner, fly alongside my car on an empty highway, watching a lone dingo hunt for breakfast among spinifex, collecting shells on remote beaches where just a single set of footprints crowds the sand.

My city colleagues are always curious about my love for what I do in rural and remote areas. They are office bound clinicians. The complexities and uncertainty of travel is not for them. For me, I thrive on the excitement of the unknown.

The reason I love what I do is quite simple. I provide an outreach diagnostic and therapeutic service, mostly to families of children with special needs. The joy this brings is like no other. The Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore’s quote resonates deep within me.

And that’s my story …

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

In response to Your Daily Word Prompt – Morass

Inner reflection, for some, is a space of luxury and for others, a waste of time. For me, it is as essential as breath.

My most joyful moments in any given day are early mornings when I wait, coffee in hand, for the world around me to wake. It is a time where all falls away and even the muddy footprints left behind, lead me somewhere.

There is no time in the day to do this thinking. It would be akin to asking me to walk through this muddy river bed. I would balk at the squelching sounds of my feet as I dragged them through sticky mud. But from afar, that heightened space of early morning, when I view my day, my life, from above, the world below glistens. I can see what I have found.

May today bring you a sense of peace that all is well.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

In response to RDP – Reticule

The word prompt reminded me of my mother’s bags. Those tiny, beautifully beaded, soft pouches that she would carry on special occasions. I loved them. They were beautiful on the outside, but what was carried had little value … a lacy hankie (in the days before tissues), a lipstick, a mirror, some perfume.

The bag I carry is dissimilar. It is big, voluminous with life, as I know it. So I’m going to rummage through it and see what I have carried around this year.

I woke today confused about how I was feeling. Being the last day of the year, was I feeling grateful, relieved, fearful, hopeful? The prompt invigorated my spirit. The message “I got this!” came through loud and clear.

I’ll say it very simply. It’s been a year I’d never want to live through again. I have lost family and friends to the pandemic. I have lost business and watched others lose theirs. As I recovered from a severe flare up of rheumatoid arthritis and resumed nearly full time work again, I had a significant fall and ended up in hospital with concussion. Luckily no broken facial bones or teeth but the soft tissue injuries in my limbs is taking longer to heal. I asked my sister, “how can I fall face first on to concrete and not break anything?”. She responded, “because you fell into the arms of angels”. I believe her.

As I scrolled through my photos I realised I had taken only one or two pictures with my camera. I had lost strength in my hands and could not lift it nor could I press the button. The pictures I have taken this year have been mostly with my phone and most of them have been from the air. That in itself, is my story this year.

There is nothing more West Australian to me than a scene of beach and bush. I love the paradox of this type of landscape … the isolation and yet, both I know, are teeming with life.

In Carnarvon, where a community crisis of a little girl lost (and found), brought home to me how a small town can have a big heart. The mighty Gascoyne River will flow again and life will go on.

My backward glance at Carnarvon is always one of joy. It shimmers in simplicity of all that is country.

I was thrilled to visit Exmouth, in the north again, even though the heat was extreme. I did catch a couple of emus walking along the main street but I also loved this street art, just as much.

It can’t be Christmas season in Australia, without Santa making a surprise visit, in the most unexpected way. It was fun getting sprayed by the local fire department that preceded Santa’s arrival.

The kids at the resort squealed with delight as they got their ice creams.

To return home for a few weeks rest I realised how lucky I am. The horizon is beautiful no matter where one is. One just has to make the effort to seek and see it. This is what I see each morning from my bedroom.

In a difficult year, I experienced the kindness of a stranger when I fell. She bundled me into a car and took me to the hospital, stayed with me for hours because I did not know anyone in the town but as she put it, “now you know me!”.

My front entry to the home is a cottage garden that perfumes the air. I open my heart and home each morning and breathe deeply.

And in the back garden, my salad garden is teaching me the wonders of nature.

To pick a cucumber … one first enjoys the journey of the flower.

A sprig of cherry tomatoes taught me patience, as I monitored it each day for the first blush to appear.

Unable to cook like I used to, I found a simple lunch is equally good.

So I’m looking back at 2021 with a sense of accomplishment. A sense of celebration, despite it all, I survived. There have been moments and months where fearing my future, I found myself sliding down the rabbit hole. I sat with trees as my companions and know the world may not heal me, but Mother Nature does.

My wish for you is to experience being alone and being comfortable with that daunting feeling. In aloneness, to find hope, is a treasure like no other. To experience there is something better, not necessarily bigger, that will make your world the best place to live in. And, may you live well in it.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

I’ve been immersed in culling at home and just come across a story, a memory from my childhood, I had written down a long time ago. I read it and observed the child in me, the child who watched every thing around her. I realised, I am still that child today.

Eager feet race ahead of my thoughts, and out the backdoor towards the womb-like warmth of a world far from my own.

I break free from the rusty snags of the barbed wire fence, run back, kick the green gate that presumes to keep me safe, hear it creak shut and I am in the open field behind my home – the ownership of which is never questioned. It is my backyard, our backyard, belonging to us all … neighbours, drifters, pedlars, sheep, cows, stray dogs and water buffalo. I know every snake hole, every old and new cowpat, yet always virgin territory to this seven year old. I slip off my leather sandals and step mesmerised into the muddy swirls gifted by the monsoon rains. Across the gully are the mud homes, a neighbourhood hinged together like spare-ribs. Dusk does not hide the turmeric rivulets that had earlier streamed down like grief. The walls remain sullen. The homes all look alike but I know there is a different story behind each door. I wade across enjoying the sucking squelch between my pink brown toes as I lift each foot forward.

I scrape my dirty feet vigorously before entering the home. A habit. Bewildered eyes question my loud courtesy which has embarrassed me. It is just as muddy indoors. I skip in and in three steps I am in the kitchen inhaling the freshness of grass in the glowing dung chips. My eyes slowly adjust to the sepia glow. I look around the room, home to nine people. It, yet again, accommodates the tenth with the grace of a country manor. The torrential rain has left a mark indoors too. The interior walls mirror the exterior, the damp plaster shaved decoratively forms an abstract mural of yellow and grey. Ignored by all, a bundle of rags breathes noisily through a hookah. His opium-sodden authority permeates the room.

Squatting, crab like, I am seduced towards the open fire by smoke claws and join the chorus of dry coughs around it. I want to be closer to her. Her long black hair is coiled and rests comfortably on the nape of her neck. Her sari is old but clean, she has pleated and folded every ripped tear, with pride. She wafts coconut oil with every movement. Her skin, the colour of roasted hazelnuts. The tiny grimace at her consumed breast becomes agitated at the memory of succulence and she tries to comfort him. Two matched toddlers, her audience. The aroma of frying onions, chilli and green mango floods my mouth with the familiarity of piquant delight. Food to me more exotic than the usual Sunday roast chicken stuffed with bread, nuts and sultanas, which I know Cook has basted liberally with curses.

I watch as she slaps, bakes and then neatly stacks dry chappatis with ritualistic monotony. I am lulled by the comforting intimacy of her mothermovements. Does she know I am here, I wonder. My curiosity overwhelms me and I fracture her unspoken acceptance with small talk: “Is lunch ready?” She smiles unabashedly while stirring with increased vigour and flourish. I am convinced she is cooking for royalty. Wide gaps in her young mouth betray the despicable legacy of his opium-crave and her poverty. “Yes but only for the younger ones”. “What about the older children?” I ask with concern. She tries to soothe the child in me, a practice not new to her. “It’s not their turn today. They ate yesterday.”

I return home, older than when I left it.

May a memory today bring you closer to who you really are.

As always

a dawnbird

In response to Word of the Day Challenge – Watch

The plant, a yellow clivia, is an unexpected gift. I placed it in the foyer of my home. I wanted it to be the last thing I see when I leave and the first thing that greeted me on my return home. It brings sunlight into my day.

I have always loved brass and copper pot plant holders. I have run out of space in my home to show case them, so I have to stop buying them. Brass reminds me of my childhood.

The brass buttons on waiters’ clothing at our local military club, the local watering hole for the Army folks and their guests, is a fond memory.

I remember women placing brass containers on their head and carrying water home in those areas that had communal water sharing facilities. How heavy that would have been and yet they walked with poise!

The brass scoop that we used to pour water into our glasses was kept spanking clean by cook. In those days brass was kept shining by rubbing vigorously with ash from coal fire.

Yellow is synonymous with welcome, with sunlight, with warmth, with gold.

One of the sayings I love is “Silence is not always golden, it is sometimes yellow”.

May the sun shine on your day in many forms, as it did mine, today.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

In response to RPD – Monday – Brass