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.
Being “good” had its downside. I recall although my family were well known in the community, someone commented they were surprised my parents had three children. Although it was said in jest, the child in me was wounded. And, snap! just like that, I became the invisible child.
The urge to write probably took hold in those early years. My reasoning was simple. If I could not be seen, I had no voice. So I decided I would speak with my fingers. That throwaway remark was the start of an interesting journey. One I reflect on often.
I have changed over the years. Found my voice, if you like. I am no longer ‘a closet scribbler’.
Like a dragonfly, I make myself visible.
And, vulnerable.
Each time I write.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
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.
In autumn, the Mallee gum trees are frosted with blossoms.
I’ve come to learn, the Australian Ringneck parrots, love these gum trees too. I follow the scatter of gum flowers from one trail to another. 
There are boughs of flowers, and sometimes, even a neat posy.
And the ones that are past their prime, are still beautiful.
Sometimes, just a hint of colour in the scrub.
Delicate buds, waiting to bloom.
The Prickly Dryandra is favoured by the smaller birds, who appear after the parrots have left.
But not this time. They were sitting on the tree branches, highly visible to the eye.
This one took my breath away.
And this one did the same.
I’ve lived for over 25 years in my neighbourhood and had never stopped to watch a white heron in flight. I do now.
I never realised, the beige of the Wheatbelt is beautiful at dawn. I do now.
Who knew a front garden filled with roses, is a welcome like no other. I do now.
Sunlight warms the whitest iceberg. I do now.
In a forest, the trees are not green, it is the leaves that make it vivid. I do now.
Previously my hiking boots stomped on leaves and stones, ignoring the fallen one, tortoise shelled by age and sun. My steps are now lighter. I do now.
My curiosity was blunted. I never stopped to wonder why. I do now.
I didn’t know, the Black Swan raises cygnets, as white as snow. I do now.
And, when I’m not home, snowdrops bloom at the front door. I do now.
I didn’t know life was meant to be lived, eye to eye. I do now.
A Shared Space 
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