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We were at the water’s edge, I, further away, she about to cross over.  We saw it.  A fin!  I walked up to her.  We asked the other, “Did you see that?” then laughed, definitely a dolphin!  The water safe again she told me she had always wanted to visit this beach. She dreamed it would be the honeymoon that brought them here.  This year she was done kissing frogs.  She decided, she could wait no longer, the beach was hers, for now this weekend.

Unlike her, I had visited the beach many times.  This time, I came seeking simplicity in things discarded.

And to find intent in every footprint.

I walked away from the water.  It was 6:30 am.  The sun had crept higher in the sky.  The walk back was slower.  The sea had left pearls at my feet.  Distracted, I didn’t notice her.

About my age, but younger than me, she was seated on the concrete steps near the cafe.  We exchanged a polite smile, the kind you exchange between strangers.  “Beautiful morning”, she greeted, then lifted one thigh slightly, brushed the sand off the step and created an obvious space for me.  I sat down.  She had been watching me, thinking I was a tourist, the camera adding to her perception.  I told her, despite my numerous visits, this beach is as beguiling as the first time I stepped foot on it.  Lean and with a tan of wide open spaces, I thought she was a local.  It opened a dialogue between us.

She was from the Eastern States.  She was going to avoid this town, known for the beach and little else.  She had made a last minute decision to spend the weekend here, the next stop being too far away to drive in a day.

Together we watched the young woman in the surf while enjoying a few minutes of comfortable silence.  The woman beside me exhaled deeply, and, still staring out to sea began to talk, for the first time in months and didn’t know why she was sharing with me.  She told me travelling around Australia in a campervan was a retirement dream for her and her husband.  After a marriage of 35 years he walked away.  To start a new life, in a new home was futile at her age.  The finances did not add up.  Once the shock and distress had subsided, something else kicked in.  She completed a short mechanics course at TAFE, bought a campervan and had travelled the Top End on her own.  She was going to complete the trip.  If she had nothing left, she still had the dream.  In the deepest creases of her face and in the blue of her eyes, I found mine.

My goals this year include travelling to those places I thought I would only go accompanied.  The women taught me I could do it on my own.  So I will.  The regret of not doing it would be harder to live with, than not having someone to do it with.

I don’t believe in chance encounters.  At times people inspire us to be stronger and at other times, we are stronger and more powerful for walking away.  Our journey may be solitary but we are not alone.

I had returned to this beach one weekend to reclaim meaning in all that I do and found a beautiful truth.

All paths taken are meant to be.

May our paths cross again.  Until then,

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

The term ‘social influencer’ is an interesting one.  Some have made a profession of it.  Back in the day, my mother saw it differently.  “If you see someone with a good habit, emulate them, if someone has a bad habit, learn how to avoid doing the same.  And, remember, you are that person for someone else”, she would say.  She was not talking about being ‘a social influencer’ or celebrity in all its forms.  Without realising it, she was asking her children to be observant and mindful about being human.

There are others who influence  people through their chosen work.  Sandesh Kadur, is that person for me.  Some years ago, switching channels, I stumbled across a National Geographic documentary.  It was on the Western Ghats (along the west coast of India).  I was bewitched by Kadur’s cinematography.  I then learned he is an internationally acclaimed wildlife photographer, who also promotes conservation.  Soon after I bought my first camera.  I have never looked at the world the same way again.

Kadur has taught me to look for the extraordinary in the ordinary.  I don’t  ‘instagram’ my photographs.  Partly because I’m not tech savvy with the camera!  I aim and shoot.  I know nothing about filters, lens and settings!  I’ve found I enjoy seeing things as they are.  The tiny feather of a Silvereye, the spikes of green grass.  Ordinary things one can miss, I’m drawn to instinctively.

One of my favourite places in the South West is Big Swamp in Bunbury.  I hear the alarm call of the swamp hen when I park my car and long before I see them.  I had taken this picture some months ago and only realised last night, I had photographed a mother and chick near their nesting area.

I notice flowers in the garden.  Any garden.  I have become inquisitive and curious.  I want to see detail.  I want to see how nature ‘packs’ and ‘unpacks’.

I’m enthralled by perfection evident in nature, even when there is no one but a solitary traveller to see the beauty in fields.

I’ve found flowers appearing magically in a bowl in my kitchen.

I’ve found a raging bushfire is followed by carpets of delicate wildflowers.  So I wait for nature to heal, as I know it will.  This one I found in Yalgorup National Park a few months after a fire destroyed the town of Yalgoo.  Like nature, people, too, are healing.  Some have returned, determined to make a new start.  Resilience is a beautiful thing.  Like the wildflower, delicate and breathtaking to observe.

I’ve discovered the tiny swallow starts her day by facing the sun.  So I do too.

And, the exquisite New Holland honeyeater will stand her ground, even if she is perched precariously.  A lesson learned.

To paraphrase my mother, what you say and do, matters.  Know your power.  Know where it is strengthened, where it is diminished.

Kadur opened a door.  I walked in.  Join me.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

One of the highlights of 2017 was a holiday in the Kimberley region where I stayed at a cattle station in the outback.  In a word, it was ‘rustic’.  I wanted to get back to basics.  I wanted things to be stripped and pared down.  No fancy white linen.  No fancy toiletries.  No room service.  No frothy coffee.  No tiny pats of butter.  No strawberry jam in miniature pots.

I woke to billy tea boiling over a drum.  The sliced bread found a place near it.  The toast, charred and smokey, never tasted so good.  The butter scooped from a shared container.  I did not need reminders to keep my water bottle filled.  The rain water was pure and sweet.

We camped one night on the banks of the King River.  The full moon high in the sky.

So beautiful, I had to have a closer look.  I rested easier under her benevolent eye.

At dusk someone saw the crocodile and casually mentioned, “There’s one out there!”.  Excited, we asked, “where?”, “where?” until the red glint in torch light silenced us.  The men reassured us the crocodile would not be climbing up the embankment to the tents.  I needed more convincing!

The fire roared and danced like a dragon at Chinese New Year.  Dinner was simple and delicious.  The talk intense, and, just as delicious.  I was with strangers.  Yet, I was with kindred spirits.  I was home.  This, family.

My love affair with the boab tree intensified under a persimmon tinted sky.  My gaze lingered.  Reluctant to say goodnight, I took it to bed with me.

I woke to sunrise.  Each alone, yet, still together.

The King River glistened, as did the ranges beyond.

The trees along the bank, carried birdsong across the river.

The beautiful kapok trees were in bloom everywhere I looked.  I love these flowers!  Oh! those Kimberley hues!

The challenge, for me, was walking in tall grass to the ‘thunderbox’, some several hundred meters away in the bush, with blue ribbons for signposts.

There was just one rule.  If the toilet roll was missing, wait your turn!

Someone fished for breakfast, to add to the bacon and eggs.

Patience was rewarded.

A piece of precious barramundi cooked simply in butter, salt and pepper, shared carefully, like manna, found its place on our plates.  I knew at that moment, I would never order barramundi in a restaurant again.  Fresh from the river, it was the sweetest fish I’ve ever eaten.

Most surprising of all, once I overcame my fear of walking in tall grass (this being snake and big lizard country), I found delicate, tiny flowers blooming in the harshest country.

Getting back to basics, I learned, all things are possible.  Even for a city girl, like me.

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

 

It has been a remarkable year and I feel blessed to have experienced it.

I’ve learned how to meditate when bobbing in a small plane on my trips to Esperance in the south eastern coast of Western Australia.  The morning hues at West Beach …

And, where I watched a father teach his son patience, at sunset.

To the far north in the Kimberley region, Wyndham and the cattle station, Diggers Rest where a canopy of whistling ducks flew above my head.

And a wild bush fire burned bright at night.

I drank champagne at sunset in open ranges.

And ate delicious street food from a food truck at a Bunbury beach, with a solitary seagull for company.

Drove hundreds of kilometres in the Wheatbelt flanked by beige fields that had no end.

Watched a cowboy in the Kimberley work magic with calloused hands, with a touch as light as a dragonfly.

I visited Crab Creek, outside Broome, where the sea left a cliff of shells.

And, saw silver eye, beaded together, on a twig, while I ate scones, strawberry jam and drank a cup of tea leisurely.

It was the year I found my voice whilst in the arms of the mother boab tree.

Most importantly, it was the year I learned, each sunset is perfectly timed, but only if you are in the right place and at the right time.  I also learned, what is a sunset to one, is a sunrise to another.

Although at times I have been saddened and subdued at the ferocity of ideology, it is my belief, at this time in history, it is even more important to focus on the difference each individual can make in their world.

We have experienced another Christmas.  A time to call each other family.  It is a time of miracles.

Unity, goodwill and peace is what we wish for each other, share in common and inherent in the tenets of every major religion.

The onus of the miracle is on each individual to achieve it.

Wishing you and your loved ones a miracle or two in the year ahead.

Until the New Year

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

Late summer I wandered into a part of the garden that overlooks the study window.  It is an area I have not visited since buying the house. It is the outdoor spa area. Due to safety regulations, it has a childproof fence. It is also independent to the rest of the property. It has some semblance of tropical garden and lost in the potential of making it an oasis, I ignored the gate that shut behind me. Minutes later as I tried to leave the area I found due to infrequent use, it had jammed shut. On one side, neighbours were away overseas, the neighbours on the other side were too far away to hear my call, the builder was having three days off, the young adults were away in the South-West and the temperature was close to 37 deg C.  Panic set in slowly as the reality of my situation became more evident. I had no water, no phone and the neighbour’s fence and my front wall, potential escape routes, were too high to climb over. The only way out, I reasoned, was the way I came in. So I jiggled, coaxed and pulled at the latch and finally, several long minutes later, with my arms weakening, was able to undo it.  I was free!  Now when I spend time in that area, I am cautious with the gate.  Therein lies the difference.

People often do not understand the difference between caution and fear.  They are quick in judgement.

Fear will often prevent one from living life fully.  Fear comes from a place that has no vocabulary.  It has feeling.  It has emotion.  We work through it by giving it thought.  ‘Mind over matter’, if you like.  But that kind of thinking cannot, and should not, be applied to all situations.  People who do not fully grasp the complexities of human behaviour find this difficult to comprehend.  For example, years ago, when working in high risk environments, some of the training came from law enforcement.  The message was always clear.  “If it does not feel right, leave immediately”.  We were trained to respond to the emotion of the moment.  It was one of the key work skills we looked at in staff every week.  Yes, every week!  Becoming complacent of danger in the work environment was never an option.  Caution, on the other hand, allows you to do things you have done before, that you know to be potentially unsafe.  Skydiving, is one of them.  Underground mining, is another.  It is action … with Plan B to support it.

There are things in life that hold one captive in silken skeins.

Fear can be one of them.  My profession gives me tools to protect myself from fears others try to generate in me.  This year has been a productive one.  My thinking is solid.  I practice what I preach.  I’ve learned, fear may be a space that is susceptible to the flash flood of “what-ifs”, but then, so is the luminous space from where freedom beckons.

Captive in my own backyard required ME to do something about the situation and pushed me to my limits.  Ironically, the only way out was working through what emprisoned me.  It was the difference between being held captive and being free.

I am still fearful of things in life.  A non-swimmer, water is one of them.  It comes from knowing or not knowing one’s capacity.  Both are valid states of being.  This type of critical thinking is essential and underpins the ethics of my profession.

Personally I am able to avoid silken skeins most times.  And, if caught in the snare, I can brush it off vigorously.  I am able to walk away.

The “what ifs” have become liberating.

So the adventure continues …

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

I hope you have enjoyed your celebrations with loved ones at this special time.  We are celebrating a Christmas week this time around with meals at various homes and the family dinner later at mine.  The new schedule for celebrations has created a relaxed atmosphere for us.  We don’t have to do everything in a day.  We have the whole week.   Some may regard the message of this blog as an unusual one at a time of celebration.  But it is also one of the most stressful times of the year, so I believe there’s value in sharing it today.

‘Resilience’ by Alex Mickle is a sculpture I particularly like.  Just a couple of kilometres outside the mining town of Paraburdoo, it is large and as strong as the land it stands on and the people it represents.  It catches one’s eye in big country.  The back story is even more interesting and worth reading (http://five.org.au).  It speaks to what I know to be true, personally and professionally.

As a single mother my focus was unwavering.  I wanted to raise my children to have the ability to cope with whatever life threw at us.  The word ‘victim’ had, and has, no place in my vocabulary.  Nor does ‘survivor’.  Happily, they are not words my now adult children associate with me or themselves. Financially we lived in a creative space for years.  Life could not have been more challenging.  The future was invisible.  But, there was always a ‘today’.  Our dreams were big, because they were stored in small spaces.

I now wake to bigger dreams.  I live in the bigger space of freedom.  Although the feeling is one of arrival, it is also the point of departure for the next adventure and the ones that follow.  I no longer work.  I live.  I have a lifestyle.  I don’t allow anyone to mess with that truth.

On a recent trip to the Pilbara I had to drive from Paraburdoo to Tom Price on my own.  My colleague had left the previous night.  Having travelled with her a day before, I was really looking forward to the trip.  It is stunning country.

At predawn I drove out to the sculpture and watched the shadow take shape.

I waited for sunrise with raptors for company.  I could hear movement in the scrub and in the semi-darkness, thought I was surrounded by them.

At first light, I heard them before I saw them.  The call intense and visceral.

I was surprised there were only two, high on a tree some distance away.  I wondered if they were still young ones.

A larger bird was in the scrub with crows feasting on it.  Perhaps, the road kill was the parent?  The raptors had vantage point.  They could do nothing except call and call.

Eventually, one flew closer to my car than to the kill.  We sat and watched each other, waiting for the next move.

until the crows chased it away.

There was something paradoxical about the raptors’ plight.  Powerful in wing and flight, they appeared to be helpless.  Later that morning I drove out of town under the shadow of raptors as they flew low.  Too low.  There was a lot of learning ahead and no teacher.

Life has been my teacher.  Experiences, my mentor.  Ironically, I’ve learnt how to be self-reliant by reaching out.  I believe success in life is knowing how to ask for help and when and who to approach.  It is a critical social skill.

It is in that fragile space of ‘a first step’ that resilience finds a footing and from where a new journey, a new normal, begins.

Mickle’s message of ‘Resilience’ is louder and larger than my life narrative.  It captures the grandeur of land and people.  The vulnerability of it all as well.  It has a physical presence.  An accessibility.  It speaks in a dialect that all of us, at some point in our lives, should comprehend.  It is okay to reach out.

May your presence, too, be accessible to all those who need it.  Have a safe and blessed holiday season.

Until next time

As always,

a dawn bird

It is 3 pm and I’m seated seaside at my favourite restaurant in Geraldton.  I was up at 4.30 am completing reports and then worked all day without stopping.  I limped over the line with the promise of an excellent coffee and the thought, it was my last trip before a two week break.  My flight is due to leave at 6:10 pm.  I have hours to complete more writing, fill the tank with petrol and head to the airport, a short ride outside town.

Over a coffee, I savoured the moment, and the moments before this,

I watched boats tug gently at their moorings, while two returned from a fishing trip.  Children shouted, “Dad! Dad!” in shared enjoyment of school holidays with family.  The rest of the sentence wafted away with the sea breeze.  Their excitement is equivalent to the texts I have received from my children, “Are you home yet?”  They, too, want the holidays to begin.

I spent several days in Geraldton.  Having visited the Midwest about a dozen times in the last twelve months, I have a few favourite places that I visit, all less than five kms from my hotel.  But, the best place of all is my hotel room.  On request, the staff give me the same room every trip.  It overlooks a flowering avenue.  Like me, the birds love the trees too.

I’m becoming a bird watcher (not twitcher).  I’m told bird watchers observe behaviour of all birds, not just chase rare ones, as twitchers do.  I’ve observed, time is set aside for feeding, playing and grooming.  They are too quick in play.  Or perhaps, my camera is too slow.  So I take lessons from them about nurturing and self-care.

The white cheeked New Holland honey eater seems to be a smaller species here, making their beaks appear larger and more prominent.  They alight fearlessly on a delicate bloom, confident it will carry their weight.  It is a soft place to land.  I yearn for mine.

I know the call of the brown headed honey eater.   In Kalgoorlie they wake me at pre-dawn.  Delighting in their song, I mentioned this to the hotel receptionist.  She laughed and advised me, she once had a guest who, thinking the birdsong was piped through the property, found it an annoyance and asked for it to be switched off!

I found this honey eater right outside my door.  This species is tiny and quieter than the ones found in the Goldfields.  I watched this little one comfortably seated on buds, bobbing up and down in the afternoon sea breeze.  Like the bird, I sat down, camera in hand, and took a moment to reflect on the smaller joys of life.

I have become accustomed to the call of the white plumed honey eater.  They are prolific in the Pilbara and I also see them in the Midwest.  When excited, their call sounds like maniacal laughter.  In the morning it blends in perfectly with sun and foliage and surprises me with its presence.

At dusk I found it grooming, seated exposed on a branch, fluffed up body and yolk yellow head, looking bigger than it did in the morning.  I know the feeling.  I’ve experienced this after a delicious seafood meal with a colleague!

When the birds leave, I focus on the flowers.  They are translucent in morning sun.

The bees love them and stay longer than the birds.

When the bees move on, my eyes linger.  And, as if a wish granted, I watch one drop before me, reflecting the colours of a Midwest sunset, all yellow, peach and orange.

It takes me back to that moment of surprise when driving back from an appointment, I see something on the top of a bare tree.  I’m learning to take in shapes, even at 80 km an hour!  A magnificent sea eagle.  Fierce in stare.

I bring myself back to the moment I’m in, gather up my belongings and head out of the restaurant.  Home stretch.  I see an older policeman, laughing and interacting with children and families, waterfront.  His partner, younger by decades, is seated in the patrol car flicking through his phone, a young man of his generation.  He glances at me and grins a relaxed, laid back, “G’day!”  Community policing at its best, I think.

Later next day I see the headlines in the evening news, the biggest drug bust in Australian history, a day after my visit.  Perhaps what I observed at the marina was more than police with community spirit!  I am grateful for their seemingly benign presence.  We are a safer community because of them.

I’ve returned home with memories of a year that was.  More on this later.

Until then,

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve just returned from my last trip to Kalgoorlie for the year.  The two days went fast.  Too fast.  As I’m booked back-to-back on these trips, I always ‘escape’ to the Aboreteum during my lunch break.  I love my time with the gum trees and birds.

The gum flowers blossom on straggly trees, their boughs droop with leaves, nuts and flowers.  They are ordinary to the naked eye.  I know this because I have ignored them for as long as I can remember.  But, in the absence of other things that catch my eye, Kalgoorlie has introduced me to the beauty of these flowers, and, the perfume of eucalyptus.

The gum nuts are hard, and each frosted nut, perfection-in-waiting.

Evenly sliced around the crown, the flowers frill into bloom.

Delicate and fragile, the bees and birds lead my lens to them.

Some resemble a lashed eye.

Sharing this space with me, is the singing honey eater.

I’m always surprised when my alarm goes off, reminding me to return to the clinic.  How can 60 minutes go that fast is a constant grumble, under my breath!

Reverie broken, the next few hours go faster, only because, I return at sunset, to see the leaves blush under my watchful gaze.

I have been incredibly busy as I wind up for Christmas.  I seem to be typing reports and doing nothing else.

So, before the sun set today, I thought I’d take you with me to the Aboreteum, to where the gum flowers bloom.

May your eye see, what my heart feels in this special place.

Until next time.

As always,

a dawn bird

 

A colleague and I were asked to spend about a week in the Pilbara region.  This request came when the temperatures were hanging around 35-39 degree celsius, deep in mining country.  I had never been to one of the towns and neither had my colleague.  We planned the logistics of the trip carefully.  We felt a quiver of excitement, despite the harsh conditions we were about to experience.

At the airport, we chatted like excited schoolgirls, reassuring the other, “We’ll be okay!” anticipating a long, hot drive that would take us over 500 kms in extreme heat.  Maps, google maps, directions and safety plan in place, we were off and ready to experience whatever the trip threw at us.

Our work over in Port Hedland, we left early morning on a Sunday, our car heavy with water.  “You can’t have too much water!”, we reasoned with the other.  We laughed when we realised, each of us had brought two phones each!  Well charged!  Left on our own, neither of us are good navigators but between the two of us, we are excellent!

Outback!  Here we come!

Like me, my colleague thrilled to the grandeur of the landscape on either side of us and before us.  We gasped in delight!  “Ohhhh! looooook!”

Having left Port Hedland early to avoid heat, we were nearly at Tom Price when we realised we were too early to check into our accommodation.  As our trip took us through Karijini National Park, we stopped for lunch in the afternoon.  We could barely open our eyes to the heat that radiated from this landscape.

We walked slowly towards a bench, hoping to rest and enjoy a snack.  We walked in silence, one behind the other.  Taking it all in.

I lagged behind, looking at small things.  The burnished seed pod caught my eye.

The delicate mulla mulla stopped me in my tracks.

The trees were huge and yet, looked like they were made of soft dough, spreading like ooze on the red earth.  I was tempted to poke it.  It gave the illusion of softness and delicacy, but it was strong and firm.  The tree reminded me of the nanny I had during childhood.  A sparrow of a woman, she was my role model of grace in adversity.  I stopped and touched her in memory.  The moment made me catch my breath.  She held my hand when I would refuse to go from one room to another at night, unless I had someone with me.  I know she would be proud of me today!

Below us were the most amazing gorges and waterfalls.  Water looked icy cold and tantalizing.  The walk down in heat, was something neither of us wanted to do, especially as we had not anticipated the stop and had not dressed for weather conditions.

An hour later we were at Tom Price, the highest town in Western Australia.  Cradled in the palm of ranges, it is a pretty town and took us by surprise.  We were expecting red flat, dust roads everywhere.  Our accommodation was at the foot of Mt Nameless.  Magnificent!

Two weeks before our trip the area was ravaged by a controlled burn that went wild.  The flames licked the edges of the park we stayed at.  The smell of destruction, still pungent.

I love this sunburnt country.  It is harsh.  It is unforgiving.  It is humbling.  It demands respect.  It also gives glimpses into the most delicate of hues.  Or the most vibrant.  Always surprising.  Always taking one off guard.

I was thrilled to make this journey with my colleague.  There was so much we didn’t know and had to research.  The joy of discovery was contagious.  It made the journey an adventure.

And, isn’t that what life is supposed to be?

Until next time,

As always,

A dawn bird

Just before spring and during spring, Foxes Lair in Narrogin was flower extravaganza.  It was not difficult to see beauty any and everywhere you looked.

In summer, I looked for smaller things.  Minutiae.  After the rain I knew there would be rain drops left behind, not yet found by the warmth of the sun.  So I went looking.  Often I cannot see the detail when I take a photograph.  It is only when on my screen that I see what my lens has captured.

I love these tiny purple flowers found growing in hard clay soil.  They are smaller than an infant’s nail.  They are blooming everywhere at the Lair right now.  So are the wild, native bluebells, stronger in hue, when blooming in shade.

The tiny, tiny, purple/blue flowers that I am yet to identify.  All growing gracefully under the harshest of conditions.

Then there were the pink flowers, strung together with strands of diamonds.

Along the hardened clay ground, the most exquisite and delicate flowers, similar to the mulla mulla found in the Pilbara region, were growing like ground cover.

The pink tendrils that grew along the ground, each smaller than the pinky finger of a child, but encrusted with tiny pink flowers.

I thought the moss under the shade of a huge gum tree looked unusual, so I took a picture only to find the ‘blurry’ white I noticed were the smallest of flowers.

So why do small things matter?

I hear people talk about their hiking trips to various parks but I am yet to see how it transforms them.  A hike, it seems, appears to be a hike.  They take in the grandeur, the largeness of the landscape.  They miss the detail.

In a three hour hike around the reserve I was dwarfed by large gum trees, and huge sprawling scrub.  I, too, could have been submerged in the vastness.  But, I found what the eye could not see.  I sensed there was something beautiful, so I took the picture. I had a visceral response each time when I did.

I have captured moments of oneness.  Moments of being attuned to my surrounds and being at one with it.  It is the essence of mindfulness.

Small things matter.

In relationships too.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

On Sunday I worked feverishly preparing to leave for my trip  before dusk to Narrogin, a town some 250km south east of home.  It’s a long drive on a highway with frequent reminders of those who lost their life on winding roads.  By the way, highway is used loosely.  It is a single carriageway shared with oversized farming equipment at this time of year, heavily wooded areas, so plenty of kangaroo roadkill and a steady stream of road trains.  I’m always glad when I arrive at my destination.

For me, Narrogin, is a charming town.  There are some who may not see it that way.  But I do.  I love the postwar architecture.

The major banks have the best buildings, it would seem.  Their presence is strong in this agricultural town.

I love the picket fences and roses, lovingly tended by arthritis hands.  And, at this time of year, the flowering jacaranda trees that carpet the footpaths with purple.  Best of all, I love the way people call me “lovey”, an endearment not often heard any more!

There are other reasons why I hurry to Narrogin, too.  It’s Foxes Lair.  So when I woke to rain yesterday, I was disappointed as I thought I’d miss my walk in the nature reserve just outside town.  I dressed in near darkness and headed to the reserve and waited with the birds for the rain to stop.  And when it did, the red cap parrot, high in the gum tree, and I, found the other, a benign curiosity.  I had only a few minutes of sunshine before heading to work.

This morning I woke to a town shrouded in fog.  Fog!  In summer!  What in the world!

And, behind me, the main road out of town, with Foxes Lair, just a few hundred metres away, and absolutely invisible.

The Lair was ethereal, draped in thousands of spider webs.  The smell of gum trees!  Deep yoga breath …. and out again!

As it was my last trip for the year I walked around the park for three hours, saying a lingering goodbye until next year.  I felt like I was saying goodbye to a loved one.

I walked around trails I had not walked before.  My footsteps crunching up the path, breaking the early morning silence.

And other paths, …. beguiling and mysterious.  I had no idea where I was going and it did not matter.  I was one with nature.  I was in my chapel.  It is where I find Him.

In my solitude I found myself noticing things I hadn’t noticed before.  The jewel amber like drop of gum sap.

The morning glittered with dragonflies everywhere.  I needed patience for one to alight on a delicate frond.

The butterfly with her stained glass wings, landed on a rock and posed, more beautifully than a supermodel with wings.

The Lair changes every month.  The flowers are prolific.  There were thousands of these bushes (I have no idea what they are called).

And just when I was somewhat saddened I would not see them in bloom, I caught a glimpse of the treat that the bushes promised.

In that quiet moment I understood what the poet May Sarton meant when she said, “Loneliness is poverty of self, solitude is richness of self”.

I have returned home enriched in mind, and spirit.  Today, I had the luxury of three hours but usually it takes only a few minutes of each day to experience solitude.  I seek it and feel deprived if I’m unable to experience it.  I firmly believe, loneliness is circumstantial, but solitude is a choice.  I embrace it.

May you find your path or paths to solitude.

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

As the year draws to a close, I’ve been fortunate enough to get work in places I’ve never visited before.  I’m always happy to travel, but to travel to a new place, brings its own joy.  With no flights to the area, my colleague and I were forced to drive over 300+ km to Onslow from Karratha.

Onslow is about 1300 km north of Perth and on the coast of Western Australia.  The population is small with only about 600 people who call this place home.  The people are hardy.  The place is prone to cyclones.  I’m not sure about my colleague but I was slightly apprehensive about visiting, especially about accommodation.  Much to our delight, the hotel was modern, clean and right on Beadon Bay.

We arrived lunch time on Sunday.  The town was alive with the Sunday sesh at, it would seem, the only pub.  It was hot.  We were tired.  Lunch was delicious.  As I adjusted to my surrounds, like Cinderella, Onslow seemed to transform before my eyes.  The mud flats glistened and, like me, the sand plovers stood still to take it all in.

The flowers were made from velvet.  A reminder, beauty can bloom under a scorching gaze.

At the local park, perhaps one of the more poignant war memorials I’ve seen in a while, made us stop to remember those lost, and those left behind.

A walk along the boardwalk nearly led us all the way down to the beach but not quite.  The sudden stop had it’s own purpose.  It gave us time to stop and look around us.  In the quiet with just the sea breeze, we were in the middle of Grand Central Station.  Below the wooden walkway, there were prints left behind by reptiles, birds, an empty snake egg and a gecko at one with the sand.

The beach in Onslow is unusual.  The sand is dark and different to the sugar sand of Esperance or golden beige of Broome.  The distinctive colour adds hues and definition to the shells, most of whom were quite different to what I’ve found elsewhere.  Needless to say, I collected a few to share with you.

As I listened to my colleague preparing for the next phase in her life I realised I had never given that much thought.  I enjoy my work and my lifestyle too much to consider an alternative.  I am living my dream.  Until I visited Onslow.

I walked the beach in silence.  And, in that sacred moment I knew with absolute certainty.

When I retire from work, I will be spending the rest of my life walking along that foamy line where sand meets the sea.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

Goal setting is an interesting journey for me. I’m always looking at new ways to do this. It’s like flying over familiar territory and seeing a new perspective. It’s like seeing beautiful Broome for the first time.

Professionally, I am required to set some developmental goals and expected to achieve them every year. I do this easily in my personal life. The journey is often a private one, but professionally, it is harder. The goals are more complex and demanding, but, I achieved them this year. The feeling is one of exhilaration as my supervisor has stretched me professionally in a year of frequent travel. With the end of my professional development cycle in sight, I celebrated when I was in Broome recently.

 

My personal goals this year were to tick a few things off my bucket list. I have always wanted to stay at one of Broome’s oldest hotels. It is the grande dame of them all. The architecture is pure Broome, all corrugated walls, ceiling fans, frangipani scented gardens, water falls and lily ponds. It is also one of the most expensive hotels to stay at. Chilled champagne at check in, service staff to carry luggage across the gardens in golf carts and the food, delicious. Cable Beach, is just a stroll across the bar. There is only one track for 4WD beach access for locals and tourists alike. The narrow path carries SUVs to the beach and back (it is visible just to the right of the 2017 in the picture).

The other goal I had was to experience a camel ride at sunset on Cable Beach. It is a tourist thing to do. I’ve been to Broome over 15 times in the last few years but have never had the time to do this. During this trip, I allocated time for this goal and achieved it. I looked for an opportunity to enjoy ‘down time’ as part of my self-care. The opportunity has always been there, I just did not recognise it. I did this time.  I had written the goal.  It made the difference.

 

One of the most important lessons I’ve learnt this year, professionally and personally, is to know where I want to go and how to get there. I’ve developed my own personal map for this.  My journey continues.  Like the initially uncomfortable camel ride, one adjusts, finds one’s comfort zone and then sits back to enjoy the ride.  Hand on heart, I am.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

Six weeks into spring and I land in Esperance to winter.  The winds, biting cold, the sky grey and serene as a dove, the rain, gentle and steady.  I took a couple of day off to relax.  It is an enforced requirement in my job schedule.  I do it easily in places like Esperance.  The bench at the groyne that overlooks the bay is my favourite place to enjoy a cup of coffee at sunrise.  At times a seal or a pod of dolphins glide by or perhaps a solitary kayaker.

Determined to enjoy my break I headed out to Le Grande National Park, some 50 plus kms east of Esperance.  The weather kept folks away, even the toll guy.  Without the right change, I over paid my fee and drove in.  The park is large at 316 square km.  It’s easy to see if one is alone in the park.  The winding roads make traffic visible.  I’m exhilarated to find there is no one else around.  I am alone with nature and in nature.  The beauty of the Bays in this national park is stunning.  Nine kms from the entrance I stop at Hellfire Bay, a small bay, almost private, with the bluest water.  Next stop, a short few kms is Thistle Cove, cradled by granite cliff face.  I’m yet to walk down to the bay.  The pathway to the water is flanked by banks of native flowers.  The distraction is easy and never resisted.  Then, there’s Lucky Bay where kangaroos bask on the beach.  I see a few caravans in the camping site.  I’m not alone any more and I’m not sure if I’m annoyed or comforted.  The first sight of Lucky Bay is a lasting one.  It never fails to take my breath away.  To ask me which Bay is my favourite, is like asking me which is my favourite child.  I have not yet made it to Rossiter Bay, some six kms from Lucky Bay.  Perhaps, therein lies my answer.  On the way out, I take a quick trip to Le Grande Beach, all silver and roiling in winter-like weather.

For some people, it is a perfect day when the skies are blue as his eye and sunshine is a warm embrace.

For me, a perfect day also means when it is overcast and I wake to the sound of rain.  It gets me out of my comfort zone.  It brings on my ‘as if’ thinking.  “Do it as if the sun is shining” was my mantra during my break.  Looking at the sky in Esperance I took a chance there may be sunshine some 50 kms away.  I was right, some of the time.  It was worth the punt.

Perth went through a rowdy thunderstorm last night.  The rain came with drama.  I walked around my garden to find it alive.  The air is sweeter. The birds, like me, subdued. And, in that stillness I found it is possible, if I waited, there may be a rainbow, or two.  It is that feeling of anticipation, a glimmer of hope in the eye that scans a muted sky, that makes it a perfect day, because, one thing I know for sure, the sun always rises.

This post is for a friend.  Your encouragement means a lot.  I’ll write to you soon.  In the mean time, keep yarning!

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird