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via Daily Prompt: Inscrutable

Your name is Anzac.

Your eyes are liquid.  I swim in them finding new depths each day.

While the young, muscled farrier worked, your gentle gaze I sought discreetly.

You were one of many horses, and yet, you were the only one.

I saw myself in your amber eyes.  The way you saw me.

In that inscrutable moment,

How did you know?

I had never touched a horse

until you touched me.

a dawn bird

At the end of my last work day this month I found a tiny egg while bush walking.  Right at my feet.  Perhaps it had fallen from a nest but I could not find the source.

My first thought on seeing the egg was “new life”!  I walked back to my car, reflecting on the past month.

I was committed to work differently  this year.  It was at the top of my learning plan.  The old phrase, work smarter, not harder, was something I wanted to practice.  Yet, despite the workload, I still have energy left over to enjoy my break for the next few days.  This is working to plan.  What has made the difference?

At night I list my tasks for the next day.  In the morning, I organise them by priority.

As an independent practitioner, I can pick and choose my work.  I chose well this month.

With the reward firmly in sight, productivity has been easy to achieve.

I want more of the same next month.

But, before then, I’m off to enjoy a brief holiday.  This, my new life.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

via Daily Prompt: Trill

There is no sweeter sound than the melodic, fluted notes of the Willie Wagtail’s trill.

Free

Fearless

Nurturing

Observant

It is the pulse that beats in my ear, each day.

May you find your rhythm to a tune today.

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

In October I spent some time in the Kimberley region.  Still early in season, the mangoes were delicious.  They tasted like they had just come off the tree, not stored in cold storage.  So perfect, I had to take a picture!  I feasted on them and looked forward to the mango season later in the year further south.  Come December, I could not help but ask, where have all the mangoes gone?  The ones that appeared in the supermarket were tasteless and obviously stored, bruised and turned to mush, within a day.

As I had not cooked for so many months before Christmas I found myself wandering around the supermarket lost in the unfamiliarity of the once familiar.  The colour of the pasta sauces, the curry pastes, just like the mangoes in the supermarket, all looked paler and did not taste the same as I recalled from a year ago.  When mentioning this to the young adults, they stated, they avoid processed food as much as they can.  “Make your own paste and sauces, Mum”, was the challenge they set.  I attempted to defend my reluctance by saying I was time poor, but then …

I found myself telling them about kitchen memories from childhood ….

The cook would spend a few minutes in the morning with my mother who gave her the menu for the day.  Although the cook knew the recipes well, ritual like, she would go over them with my mother who, unlike me, had unlimited patience with her.  A woman would arrive early at the kitchen door with a cane basket of crisp vegetables, covered with a damp cloth.  The usual bartering would take place as the cook haggled the price down because of the amount of soil that still clung to the carrots or beets.  Then, she would set off to the market carrying a cloth bag and return with fresh corriander, chillies, ginger and garlic.  Having a fridge, a luxury in those days in a Third World country, the cook would never have thought to store them.  They had to be fresh!  The butcher would arrive mid-morning.  A Muslim man, he wore a tunic and a lungi (a sarong type of garment).  At the back of his bicycle a wooden box of chipped ice, carrying meat.  A hand held weighing scale of wooden bar with metal plates hanging off string, a knot in the middle for balance, and an eye for accuracy completed the transaction with honesty.  By late morning the cook would set herself up over the grinding stone, a heavy slab of pocked stone with a smooth hand held oval grinder that she slid back and forth crushing everything between the stones.  The aroma of fresh herbs and freshly roasted spices remain with me to this day.  A sprinkle of water or perhaps vinegar (if it was vindaloo) giving her a brief respite between slides.  Then she washed the stones clean and started cooking at noon.  This was her daily schedule.

I found myself over the holidays attempting to make my own pastes and delighting in the process.  My efforts made easier with just about every grinder, blender and mill, you can think of.  My son has been a willing and happy taster to everything that appears on the plate.  In a short month my shopping habits have changed dramatically.

It makes me wonder … had it not been for the mangoes ….

Until next time

As always,

a dawn bird

 

The first thing I noticed about him was his walk.  It was quick and confident, like he knew where he was going and why.  A natural leader, he was the driver.

I sat in the back seat and listened to his conversations with strangers about life, loss and love.  It was easy to trust him, to take his word as truth, his integrity holding up a mirror to mine.  There was something in his laid back “G’day!” the first time we met, but I didn’t know it would give me the softest place to land.

For months I had walked regularly and climbed stairs at every opportunity in preparation for this hike.  We arrived at a designated area by 4WD.  We stretched our legs, limbered up, then walked through spiky spinifex and scrambled over low lying rocks to view ancient indigenous rock art.  He climbed first and hand-over-hand yanked those of us willing and importantly able to climb to the next level.  I looked down to the small billabong below, the view was magnificent from above.  I had set myself a goal and felt I had achieved it.  Little did I know, I was to accomplish much more.

Like any art, it is all about perspective and interpretation.

So we wander around this ancient gallery, heads tilted, cameras angled, sharing our spin.

Then came the descent, an incidental team building exercise of trust.  He descends first.  We follow with him guiding each step, his voice, a command.  “Keep your left foot steady, then lower the right.  There’s a foothold there.  That’s it!  That’s it!  Don’t.  Look.  Down.  Trust me!  If you don’t, we both fall”.  In that moment, step by step, walking backwards blindly, I became surefooted again.

Later he goes before with a helper to the place where we would camp overnight near the river.  We travel with the woman he loves.  It is her turn to trust, having done this before.  She follows the tracks the men left hours earlier, now slight indentations in tall grass.  When unsure, he guides her through the crackle of satellite phone.

We couldn’t be more remote.

Known for the inherent dangers in this beautiful but unforgiving part of the world, we were immersed in the sights and sounds of the outback.

 

And, yet, I never felt safer.

He walked ahead of me down the grassy path to show me how a bush toilet works.  I was dressed in protective clothing, he in open sandals, feet exposed.  Mesmerized with fear, I tell myself, this is a walk in the park for him.  He had once worked with crocodiles.  But I can’t help remembering the huge monitor lizard we had allowed to pass us earlier.

Soon he notices the hesitancy in my footsteps every time I heard something rustling.  He stops.  We listen.  He senses my vulnerability.  He says, “Stomp your feet hard when you walk.  If you hear something, it is moving away, trying to escape from you.  Just remember you are bigger than it“.  I carry his bush wisdom in the palm of my heart.  Months later, my footsteps audible, I’m walking a new path.

In the city my career success is visible in productivity.  Alone in the bush hut the first night, illuminated by inner light, there was nothing to shield me from my invisible reality.  So I faced a harsh truth eye to eye.

I had allowed a significant loss to surreptitiously define me.  Shattered by it, in a strange way, it was also a lifeline.  It reminded me, life would and could, go on.  And, it did.  It was a point of reference and came with a high price.  It silenced the real me.  In the darkness I made the move from the void, to where I yearned to be.  Next morning I shared my work with fellow writers, face to face, as me not pseudonym, for the first time in 17 years.

He was unaware of what he had encountered in the first “G’day”, but then, nor did I.  On reflection, I realize he was able to wrestle something deep within me that I was unable, or perhaps unwilling to access, but he did unwittingly, emerging from the experience, head and limbs intact.

And, I returned home, a new me.

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

My frequent travel draws interest.  And, not always in a good way.  For me, it only brings to the fore what I know to be true.  A business person who travels frequently is working too hard but airline crew are doing a job.  It is all about perception.

I’ve learned over time, it is not what you say, but how you say it that makes a difference.  The art and science inherent in all human interactions is a craft, including the self-talk we generate for ourselves.

At one time my visits to Kalgoorlie were visits related to work.  Although I am always busy here, staff respect my need for ‘down time’ and I get a whole hour for lunch!  There’s more to see and experience in his historic town.  I’ve grown to anticipate my trips here.

In this harsh mining town I find the colour pink in the most unexpected places.

Softness in the prickly scrub.

I’ve found gold does not always glitter.

Nor is it always buried in the ground.

And, when you find it, it makes you smile wider than a novice prospector.

Enjoying what you do in life takes shape in perception.  It depends which side of the thin line you see yourself standing.

You are either in a playground.  Or a prison.  The line is always there.  So is choice.

I’m off to play.

Until next time,

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

 

 

After a full eight hours sleep, I’ve been working steadily for three hours this morning.  I’m making progress and it feels good.  The backlog, fingers crossed, will be cleared this weekend before I’m back in the air again.

I worked with a team about a year ago, just for a couple of days, for professional development.  There were some practices I liked very much and I found myself committing to working in a similar manner.  I’m still fine tuning my style to adapt to my circumstances.  I’m getting there because I have a receptive colleague who sees the value in working the same way.  We are developing an efficient and effective collaboration.

Finding the right supervisors in 2017 was similar to having  parents with sound values.  It has given me an excellent foundation to build on as I progress through my career, as I become more discerning of pitfalls and opportunities.  One of the changes I had to make was getting a portion of work done and then allocating some time for mindfulness.  This schedule allows one’s brain to function at a higher and more effective level.  Previously, I would plough away until the job was completed.  It was tedious and there was no joy at completion.  I may have known this on one level, but never put it to practice as consciously as I do now.  The results are gold.

During my first trip for the year, this time to the Midwest, I found I did not need to move from my desk.  I could be mindful where I was.  And, where I was, made me productive.  Spending five days in a hotel room it also gave me a chance to observe bird behaviour more closely, the room being a natural hide.

The honeyeaters, various species, arrived on cue at sunrise and shared the space with me intermittently, almost as if they knew I was taking a break.

 

On the last day, the cyclone up north was making its presence felt further south.  I woke to an overcast sky with an imperceptible sea breeze (unusual for Geraldton).  The birds were silent and seemed to conserve their energy.  I knew the birds were there and looked closely.  My persistence became the mindfulness ritual.  In the afternoon I finally caught sight of the white faced New Holland honeyeater snuggled deep in foliage.

If you have ever observed these birds you would know how active they are.  Photographing them seated in rest is rare.

So to catch one having ‘a nana nap’, well, that was a thrill for me!

‘Photobombing’ became the norm for the other honeyeaters, who fluffed up their feathers and …

and peered, vying for attention.

When they left, I found even a Midwest fly can be beautiful, with a glint of gold and wings of lace.

The science behind mindfulness may be more recent but the art goes back centuries.  Put simply, it is nourishing one’s body and mind by being in the moment, in a non judgemental manner.  You stay with the moment, good or bad.  The photographs reflect, time and again, I experience more good moments, than bad.

An early riser since high school, being productive at an early hour, was always the aim.  Now I’ve learned there is a time for work, a time for play, a time to eat and a time for rest. Like the early birds, I practice this.

Put simply, if you dare enter, Nature is a classroom.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird