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It’s been busy with little time to keep up with my blog.  I’ve taken hundreds of pictures that need sorting.  It’s a task to do.

I woke one morning recently in Busselton.  A small town in the south west of Western Australia.  I’ve grown to love visiting here.  The Bay is always beautiful.  One morning I decided to stay in bed instead of scouting around with my camera.  But, with my hotel balcony facing east, it was a fleeting thought.  I drew the curtains thinking I’ll watch the sunrise from the comfort of bed.  (We have been experiencing a lengthy, unseasonal winter, in spring).  The storm clouds were tinted pink.  I had to experience the moment.

I’ve been looking at real estate in this town and thought I’d take the road to my left, just to explore.  Driving for a while along the coast with little traffic, I turned off the music and turned down the windows.  There is something special just listening to the sound of sunrise.  Then, in the quiet, I heard them.  Unmistakable!  There was birdlife.  A lot of birdlife!  Somewhere close.  Somewhere within reach.  I followed the calls.

The wetlands were a delight and surprise.  Under a massive storm cloud, there was a colony of water birds.  Most of which were perched in trees.  They were waking to a new day and wanted every one to know about it.  I usually see ibis across the State, solitary, or in a small group of two or three.   Here, I stopped counting just past 50.

Enthralled I sat quietly in the car and watched the colony interact.  All water birds, they were different.  The ibis, the cormorant, the heron.  Some sharing the same branch.  Each seeing the world from their vantage point.  Sharing from the same pool.  Their tasks were similar.  One cared for the chicks, while the other brought food back to the nest.  Migratory, they have learned the art and science of being magnanimous.

Humans, migrants, do this too.

More later …

Until then,

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

“I find there is a quality to being alone that is incredibly precious. Life rushes back into the void, richer, more vivid, fuller than before.”
― Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea

Anne Morrow Lindbergh is one of my favourite authors.  I return to her books often.  I think about her life and her works when I’m on Cable Beach.

Cable Beach in Broome is 22 km of pure bliss.  White sands, azure water, and fabulous sunsets.  There have been many happy times there in the company of others, chatting, sipping a drink or walking.  But.  Yes, there is always a but!  But, I have enjoyed many, dare I say, happier times there on my own.

On my own I’ve walked the beach oblivious of its sweeping beauty.  I’ve drowned out chatter.  I’ve walked looking down at my feet where I have found beauty beyond words.  Today I want to share the rocks with you.  The rocks of the Kimberley region are gorgeous.  The colours, the shapes, the stories of ancient times.  Just before my trip a new dinosaur footprint was found on a rock in a new area of the beach.  (There are known dinosaur footprints at one end of the beach).

The tides always leave behind gifts.  There have been times I have watched the tide recede before walking, my step quickening in anticipation.  Sometimes, thousands of shells are left behind.  Sometimes, clear rock pools.  But, always, generous gifts to the seeing eye.

Embracing the ebb and flow of tides is a life lesson.  There is predicability in the movement of tides.  What goes out, comes in again.

I have left nothing behind on Cable Beach except my footprints, my joy, my solitude.  I believe the tides will return them to me.  I can’t wait to return and receive more gifts from the sea.

Until then,

As always

a dawn bird

I recently visited the Mid-west region of Western Australia.  Geraldton is a coastal town some 400 km north of Perth and Dongara, a fishing hamlet some 60 kms south of Geraldton, are known for fishing, in particular, cray fishing.  These parts are also known for the wildflowers that bloom in spring.  This year the conditions were just right and the flowers have been magnificent.  I caught a glimpse of them while driving between these two towns.  They were spectacular.

There were acres of pink, white and yellow everlastings.  Purple Patterson’s Curse is a toxic weed for horses but prolific in paddocks.  There were tall trees covered in blooms.  I got out of my car once and attempted to walk.  The flowers were so dense and fearing snakes, I was cautious and did not venture far.

Western Australia is known for its wildflowers in spring.  I had heard about them but never had the opportunity or desire to see them.  But then, I had no idea what I was missing!

Life can be like that.  But, not any more.  I am on a mission!  I will see it all.  I will experience it all.  Nothing will stop me now.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

We are a month into spring, that has not yet arrived.  It is reported to be the longest and coldest winter we have experienced in a while.  For me, it has been longer and colder.

It felt like being in the throes of winter today.  I made an effort this morning to brave a blustering, biting wind that made my eyes tear.  Camera in hand, rugged up, I went outside to spend some time in the garden.  I walked around, looking for perfection and inhaling deeply, much like a mother who examines and nuzzles her newborn.  I was not disappointed.  The ornamental fruit tree is just starting to bloom.  I love the tiny, white flowers.  They grow on stark branches.  The geraniums continue to be in full bloom, pretending it is summer in their corner of the garden.  They are flamboyant in an otherwise staid landscape.  The lemon tree is in bud.  A tiny butterfly kept me company refusing to move and standing her ground in a fierce gust.  A lesson taught in a nanosecond to a willing student.

Ask anyone about the weather and the response will be, “I’m over it!”  Cold does this to people.  It makes them burrow into themselves, not daring to stretch.

Yes, I’m over it too.  I am over the cold.  And, I know the only way to counter cold is to seek warmth.  And, to do this, I must leave you …

As always

a dawn bird

Like a child before Christmas I have been waiting for this day … my holidays begin!  Off to the north, to Broome, and perhaps, beyond.

Will be back with more pics and memories.

Until then …

As always

a dawn bird

I’ve just returned from another trip.  Actually, I’ve been on several trips and have had no time to update my blog.  This time I met my regional manager in Esperance.  He is familiar with my passion for taking pictures.  He greeted me with “Have you seen the wild orchids yet?”  My eyes lit up as he directed me.  From the Dempster Head Lookout, squeeze through the trail, walk down the rock face and to the right is a walk way over the scrub.  You’ll find them there.  You better be quick.  They won’t last another week!”  It was all the information I needed.

After work I changed my clothes and shoes and headed off with camera in hand.  The squeeze through the trail was difficult and I was on high alert for snakes.  They are active at this time of year.  At times the birdlife flew so close to my face I felt the vibrations of their wings.  Then came the rock face.  “Don’t look down!  You’ll be fine”!  I encouraged myself and stepped down cautiously.  Once the walk way was in sight my pace quickened.  The Spider Orchid and Donkey Orchid (yellow) were exquisite.  They grow in a harsh environment and their fragility is breathtaking.  My pictures don’t do them any justice.  Then as the sun started to set I realised I had to climb up again!  Always a harder task!  But I did it!  When I looked back the view was spectacular.

Life for me has been this way.  I have learnt to think differently.  The results have been more than what I expected.

In the harshest of circumstances, I seek to see something beautiful and celebrate the experience.  Looking back from the climb up has its own rewards.  Yes, spectacular, comes to mind.

May you find joy in what ever view you perceive today.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

It was cold this morning.  With the eastern sky turning vivid pink, I dressed hurriedly and walked down the street.  Too late!  The sun had crested.  To my left, at the pond, the duck family was nowhere to be seen.  No doubt, keeping warmer than I felt.  My attempt to find the kookaburras, high in the gum trees, was also futile.  So I walked away from their laughter.

Crossing the damp grass I headed to the lake, my breath creating small clouds as my step quickened.  I was not disappointed.  There was sparkle everywhere.  The light through the paperbark trees was soft.  The scene, reminiscent of a Hans Heysen canvas.  A flutter of wings and the Red Western Wattlebird flew above me, resting nearby for my camera.  I took a picture but was amazed when I uploaded it at what I had captured.  Or rather, what the bird had captured for breakfast!

Photographing the ordinary has become an unexpected passion.  It is uplifting.  It renews.  It sharpens the senses.  Life, my surrounds, no matter where I am, is not pedestrian.  Photography centres me.  It is a connection where all pieces come together and make me whole again.

May you, too, find paths that lead you to be whole again.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

 

In a rush I filled my tote with everything that was on the passenger’s seat and went to the boot for my suitcase.  To my dismay the effort to save time was disastrous.  I unclipped my water bottle and flooded my favourite camera, the Nikon P600.  I was devastated!  The camera is ruined.

The next morning I felt lost.  I felt I had ended a long relationship.  I reached for a chocolate and ate it for breakfast.  I texted my daughter who thought my coping strategy was hilarious and she tried to comfort me.  “Just think … you’ll buy another one … and it will be fun … and you’ll realise you love it even more”.  She was right.  I went out and bought a Nikon P900.  I’m loving it!

The new camera is helping me to practice mindfulness.  Helping me to consider life through a new lens.

Mindfulness is a difficult concept to understand and even more difficult to practice.  But to my delight I found this morning … it helps clear the mind and things come into focus more sharply.  In that quiet stillness, in the heightened intimacy of the space shared between me and my Creator, I stared at my screen saver and noticed the mosquito on the blue lupin.  I wonder if it is visible to you too?

Savouring the exquisiteness of the ordinary is a new delight.  There are many more to come, I’m sure.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

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