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“And so rock-bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life”. JK Rowling

I confess to never having read a Harry Potter book.  Nor do I have any desire to do so.  However, the quote by the author, JK Rowling, reflecting on her life as a single mother at the time before the book hit the world, resonates deeply.

In the early 1990s we moved into a new home with two young children, one still an infant.  I took a significant salary cut (a quarter of my annual salary to be exact) just so I could work 10 minutes from home instead of a 45 minute commute.  Less than two years later my marriage ended.  I found myself in a state of panic.  I had mortgage commitments at a time when I lost my job due to a restructure.  I also started a degree and did not want to walk away from my studies.  At this time of my life, academically, I focused on one essay, one assignment at a time.  On a personal level, I focused on my life in 15 minute segments.  If I could get through that short window of time and be functional, I could push forward to the next.  I had no choice.  The children were dependent on me on a day to day basis.

So far, my story is not special in any way.  It is the same as millions of women who find themselves in a similar situation.

On reflection, during pause, I have had to face some truths.  My son, the infant in the story, insists on this.  So, this blog is for him.

Somewhere within me was a dream that remained intact when all else had shattered.  I needed to know I had something to contribute that would be valued more than I was not.  So strong was my desire that the universe conspired to deliver it.  Through a convoluted set of circumstances, my path crossed that of a young professor who encouraged me to write, creatively and academically.  Always in the background, now, writing became my lifeline.

Before long, second year into undergraduate studies I was published in professional journals.  The following year I was invited to present a paper at a conference in the USA.  I had poetry published, by invitation, in an anthology.  I did poetry readings around Perth.  I was an active member of writing groups.  Then tragedy struck again.  The young professor, my mentor, was killed in a freak accident, just before I was invited into the postgraduate program.  So I did what I do best.  I carried his legacy, his research, into the next phase of my academic journey.  It was the best way to honour his memory and his presence in my life.

I completed my postgraduate studies at a time when I was at my most fragile.  Yet, when I look back, I was at my strongest and most resilient.  It confirmed for me, I could rise to a challenge.  I rebuilt my life.

I am not wealthy as JK Rowling.  Nor am I beautiful.  But, like JK Rowling, I am successful in my own right.  I am strong.  I am resourceful.  I am resilient.  I have a good heart and spirit.

I allow no one to mess with those truths.  Not even myself.

May you, too, find some truths within you, that are undeniable.

Until then,

As always,

a dawn bird

 

I have returned from gold country, where, like Perth, it is autumn.  With recent rain, cold mornings and warm days, the boughs, some six feet long, hung heavy with gum blossoms.  On some trees there was promise.  Delicate gum nuts swayed gently in the breeze.  On others, they were tightly knotted knuckles on slender branches.  They will be magnificent in bloom.

With a full schedule on both days, escaping to the arboretum in my lunch break was a relief.  When I took some pictures, I knew I had captured something but could not see it in the moment.  I felt a ping in me.  A hit of dopamine.  It made me click a few more, just in case I messed up the first one.  Soon, there was a visceral response of satiation and I moved to the challenge of photographing the elusive honeyeaters.  During these sojourns I have found I need to set my alarm to get back to the office.  Otherwise, I zone out in pleasure mode.

About two years ago while talking about photography, the taxi driver, in his distinctive Eastern European accent asked me if my photography was a hobby or addiction.  It was a moment of clarity.  Plain and simple, photography is my addiction.  I get a buzz when I know I have taken the picture I have been looking for.  It is the single most important release I seek every single day.

People write, paint, take photographs and then share them.  There is an undeniable agenda behind the concept of sharing in this way.  Some share for sheer pleasure and at other times there is a sly capricious quality to this. For me, blogging satisfies something deep within me.  I wake to a kernel of something that is waiting for fruition.  I enjoy the write and the opportunity to share my photographs with others.  I have no idea who my audience is.  I like it that way.  If people like what they see and return, then I have accomplished something more than personal satisfaction.

As John Harrigan said, “Happiness is the seed held, happiness shared is the flower”.

Until next time …

As always

a dawn bird

“And … there it is” is a generic phrase my son says, but it always has some context.  Watching a toddler fall over, waiting for the cry, “and … there it is”.  Starting a conversation with me on a contentious issue, requesting calm and when I lose it, “and … there it is”.  You get the drift!

Turning into my neighbourhood the other day, I noticed the white faced heron had returned.  I went home briefly and despite the rain, came back with my camera only to find the heron had left, so I waited.  Soon the storm passed over.  A burst of sunlight and activity made the little pied cormorant turn its head 360 degrees in alarm, or so it seemed.  The little white corellas, squawking loudly,  flew en masse from tree top to tree top.  They sensed what was about to happen better than I did.  The ducks, perhaps, had seen it before and continued with their calm glide.

The white faced heron returned, this time with a companion, each with legs stretched to a point and large wings that flapped in slow motion.  They landed lightly, sauntered away from each other with nonchalance, then turned and faced each other in a genteel, formal way.  To my surprise they went through a dance ritual, much like I’ve seen brolgas do in the north of the State.  The white heron instinctively joined forces with the cormorant, the white faced herons were on the same team for a brief moment too.  A stand off?  I wondered whether I was witnessing a fight for territory.  Soon, one heron walked away.  The other strutted along the edge of the pond, dipped his head in water and flung droplets into the air.  A showman!  He then gave chase.  It was a few minutes of display that seemed to go on for hours.  In a blink, they flew out of the pond again, just the way they flew in.  Moments later, only one returned.  It stalked the opposite edge of the pond’s perimeter staring down the white heron and cormorant.  It reminded me of something I learned in childhood.

I had a nanny who I loved dearly.  She was much like the heron.  Slender, strong, and grey.  She had wisdom.  I recall her saying, when making friends with someone, ask yourself, what kind of adversary they would make.  Watch how they treat their enemies.  Do they exploit their friends?  Be discerning.  Watch what they do in friendship, but be more watchful what they do in anger.  Anger is when people are most transparent.

The grace and elegance of these birds in love or war, was beautiful to witness.  Alone, victor or vanquished, the solitary bird was mesmerising.  As my son would say, “and … there it is”.

I am learning lessons at the knee of Mother Nature.  May you do too.

Until next time,

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

I left Perth a bit later than I would have liked.  It is already late afternoon when I get to the Perth Hills.  I climb higher to hush.  For a few moments I enjoy the deprivation of sound and the glide of the car.  I try not to swallow for as long as I can.  When I do, my ears pop and I can hear again.  Fighting against time, I focus steadily on my destination.  Soon the city is far behind.

The Golden Pipeline, a 560 km of water pipe that runs from Perth to Kalgoorlie, keeps me constant company.  I know when I am entering wheat country.  The road sign “Wheat Bin Road” is a dead giveaway.  I see glowing lights in the paddocks where farmers are putting in a 17 hour day.   Just past Kellerberrin my favourite lone gum tree is standing still against a soft persimmon sky.  The salt lakes of Baandee are dark and quiet with floating ducks.  I am still 30 km away from my destination.

Next morning the horn is short and sharp.  The rumble of the freight train is longer and wakes me at 5.05 am.  I open my eyes to darkness.  There is a chill in the air as I slide off the bed.  I slide back faster and deeper into the covers and wished I had brought socks with me.  I plan my day while waiting for warmth.  It creeps in through the window in the palest of light.  I dress hurriedly and rush to a farmhouse.  I know it to be beautiful silhouetted against the rising sun.  Much to my surprise, outdoors, the world is ethereal grey.  There is fog beyond me.  In some places, the visibility is less than 50 metres so I switch on my lights and head off to where I know I’m going.

At this hour, other than the occasional family car, there are only road trains and school buses on the road.  The road trains are lit up bright.  I spot “Tuff Terminatur” as it whumpfs past me.  Correct spelling is not a priority I’ve noted in country areas.  I once saw a shop sign that advertised “Awsome Signs”.   More surprising, it had customers!  The school buses are picking up children from farms in the surrounding areas.  I know some children ride their bike or walk two kms on gravel road just to get to the bus stop on the highway and then travel over 100 km to get to school.  Their trip is always longer due to the bus circuit. This is country living, as they know it.  I admire their resilience.

The fog hangs low in the lap of the highway.  When clear, the undulating road is a thrill of a roller coaster ride.  But blinded by fog, there is only apprehension of the unknown.  The effort of bursting through cloud makes the sun appear bigger and brighter.  In the misty morning, it has the magnificence of a Host over the Tabernacle.  This morning, it is my chapel.

I hear the black cockatoos from nearly a kilometre away so I head to the ruins of the Military Hospital.  I know they are high in the gum trees in a grove there.  They are raucous as always.  The white corellas and pink galahs, the black crows and green honeyeaters are there too, but silent.  Nearby I hear the sudden staccato call of the brown Western wattlebird.  It sounds like nervous laughter.  I hear it before I see it.  It comes as a surprise.  It is on ground level and not high up the tree with body bent with song.  Once the black cockatoos leave, the other birds find their place in the pale sunlight, as do their call.  Like I said before, nature likes order.

The spiders have yet to catch their meal, for now, rainbows will do.  Among the towering gum trees, delicate acacia bloom.  They are splashes of yellow and gold across the countryside.  They hint winter.

In the small town of Merredin knitted poppies curl around the iron frames that support street trees.  They are a symbol of the 100^th anniversary of World War I, commemorated late last year.  Lest we forget.  In the meantime, life goes on.  It is seeding time in the Wheatbelt.  Where it is not green, the lambs snooze among strands of blonde grass or the land is furrowed rust.

In the morning, the small café across the railway line is buzzing with men, salesmen in the farming industry.  Their cars, trucks and utes, streaked red.  They have travelled some distance for a hearty breakfast.  The talk is all about the viability of the paddocks.  The coastal rains have reached far into the eastern plains where they are so needed, for farmers and salesmen alike, it would seem.

I return home to a familiar landscape.  At the roundabout the birdlife has new company.  The elegant white faced heron strikes a pose.  The little cormorant is nowhere to be seen.  In the garden, a rose blooms the colours of the Wheatbelt.

I have travelled through the air of optimism, so I brought home some with me.  As I wait in anticipation of the new financial year, I know all is well.

Until next time …

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wetlands down the road are alive and teeming with life.  Like a ship in harbour, the beautiful black swans honk loudly to announce their arrival.  The wood ducks are an exquisite still life.  The Pacific black ducks are playful, skimming the water and skidding to a halt.  The ibis group together and add a white smudge to the gold and verdant landscape.  The solitary spoonbill is yet to arrive.  The corellas, dozens of them, watch with the disdain of those who do not appreciate adventure.  They fly from gum tree to gum tree in noisy groups.  The white heron and little pied cormorant have overstayed their welcome at the pond across the lake.  They are continually harassed by the crows to move on.  Yesterday, I watched the heron fly, landing precariously, on the poinciana trees that circle the pond.  At one point it alighted just above me.  The little pied cormorant and white heron are standing their ground but they will return to the lake, eventually.  This I know to be true.  Nature likes order.

My son’s engagement party was the fun event he and his fiancée hoped it would be.  It was easier for me to spend the night at my daughter’s home, than come home to an empty house.  I woke early, as usual, and wandered around.  She and her partner have turned their house into a home.  Her tell tale touches are everywhere.  An avid sports and comic books fan, so are his.  They have managed a perfect blend of ying and yang.  She and I had breakfast together and then shopped for a short time before she brought me home.  She introduced me to the tea shop where she buys her blends.  She no longer drinks coffee but enjoys teas and kombucha.  As designated driver, I noticed she nursed a glass of chilled water all night at the party.  She says has survived her teens and twenties and is of the firm belief, all roads have led her to be the person she now is.  Her laughter is sudden and as joyous as a peal of bells.  Little does she know, she has returned home to us, curious, adventurous, fun loving.  She has returned to be the child she always was.

The events of this week made me realise, time is precious.  Like sand in the hour glass, there is an urgent momentum that comes towards the end.  I have been reluctant to share my photograph with people for many reasons.  But, on the night of the party, impulsively, I took a photograph of myself and shared it with family and friends I have not seen in over 30 years.  Their comments have been interesting to read.  The long hair of my youth was cropped in the 1980s when life had more priority than blow drying my hair.  The slender frame expanded to give my children their first home.  Growing up in the deflected light of my beautiful mother and well loved and popular sister, I now have found my own place under the sun.  I have a voice.  I have a profession that fulfils me.  I have worked hard to be the person I have always wanted to be.  In doing so, I have returned, like my daughter, to the child I was.  Imaginative, creative, quiet, thoughtful, reflective, contented, but always knowing the process of being who one wants to be, is fluid.  It is a work in progress.  Unfortunately, I have family who misinterpret this as discontent and view the chrysalis with the disdain of the corellas.

If eyes are the windows of the soul, may those who meet me, like what they see.

Have a great weekend and until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

There is some truth in the old saying, take time to smell the roses.  It’s about quality of life.  Subjective it may be, but necessary.

As a single mother I had a demanding job while being a mother to two little children, and studying part time.  The only time I had to study was in the early hours of the morning between 4 am and 7 am.  I had four weeks paid holidays a year.  Every day of those holidays went into studying for exams or writing up a major assignment.  I learnt in those early days it was necessary to centre myself.  If I didn’t, the welfare of children was at stake.  It was a steep learning curve.  In hindsight, I made mistakes along the way.  My children have been quick to erase them with their resilience and good humour.  Challenging it may have been, but my journey with the children in those early years seems to have been too short.

The last few days have been grey with steady drizzle.  The roses are ready to shed their petals.  There is a fragility to them.  A drop of rain seems to weigh them down.  They reflect how I feel.

It is my son’s engagement party tonight.  I can’t help but feel emotional.  He proposed to his fiancee several months ago.  She is a jewellery maker.  He, on the other hand, knows nothing about jewellery.  So naturally he asked me what kind of ring he should buy.  I told him, the best he could afford.  He gave her a platinum and emerald cut diamond ring.  He used some of his savings.  He did not want to start a new life in debt.  He proposed to her on an empty stage.  Unknown to her, there were about 60 friends and family in the darkened theatre.  He wanted every one of us to be there to share in the moment.  Public it may have been, but what he said to her remains private between the two of them.  It was his moment of quality.

My children are with good people.  Each of them have found someone compatible.  Someone they can share life with.  Someone with similar values.  Someone who loves them.  It almost feels selfish to ask for more.

As busy people and my frequent travel, we meet as a family over dinner every few weeks.  Sometimes, longer.  Yet, when we do, the atmosphere is happy and loud.  They share their lives with each other with enthusiasm.  These are quality moments and they actively seek them out.  My son once promised me, quite spontaneously, should anything happen to me, he would ensure the tradition of these dinners would continue.  Far from feeling affronted by his candour, I was elated.

My son’s promise is like the recent rain.  Unexpected.  Enlivening a tired garden, where beautiful things will continue to grow.

If nothing else, I hope I have taught my children of the value of quality over quantity.  Judging from the choices they are making in their life, perhaps, I have.

Until next time …

As always,

a dawn bird

I feel I am the only woman on earth who hates shopping.  I should clarify that.  It is shopping for clothes in the city that I hate.  Time is precious to me.  Traffic, parking, browsing around shops I consider is an absolute waste of time.  Although, I do enjoy shopping in kitchenware and stationery stores.  Put me in a gourmet shop and I’ll happily zone out for hours.  I can do the same in an antiques shop.

I have spent the last few days avoiding the inevitable.  I have a significant family event on the weekend.  Buying a new outfit has been studiously avoided and almost last on the priority list.  I am running out of time so I have allocated two hours to this today.

Shopping for clothes regionally is fun.  I have got to know shop owners and they greet me by name when I walk in.  They know I’m going to buy something.  There is no overload of tonnes of synthetic clothing made overseas in mass production with a price tag of hundreds.  It is regionally where I find the fabrics I love.  For years I have worn only merino wool, cashmere, cotton, silk, linen and bamboo.  Natural fabrics that breathe.  They feel good against the skin.  And, you can find them more easily regionally where shops have a small selection to browse plus the bonus of a chat and a warm smile.  It is trade done the old fashioned way.  Somewhat like the shop in The Waltons.

Over the last year, my style of dressing has evolved after my son made an interesting observation.  He said I dressed as if I don’t want people to know I’m there.  In part what he observed is true.  Working with people who experience sensory overload I prefer not to wear bright colours, jewellery, make up or perfume.  It is distracting for them and sometimes, even distressing.  So wearing clothes for work that are muted and non-descript has become the norm.

I took my son’s observations on board and, true to my profession, decided to experiment because there are windows of opportunity to dress differently.  Now when I travel, I wear clothes in orange, turquoise, emerald green, yellow, and pink.  I wear sandals that sparkle with bling.  I make a statement. I am alive.  I am here.  It is an interesting experiment.  I’ve found more people chat socially with me at airports.  Cabin crew have asked me where I buy my pashminas.  And, the security ladies comment on my pendants or sandals!  I once got stopped at an airport where the security lady casually commented she had the same style of trousers as I was wearing.  Then she quietly asked me where I bought them because she liked the colour!  I am visible again!

I’ve come to realize, like the plain, ordinary seagull, there are times when a girl needs to shine.

So … I’m off to find something that sparkles on a cold, blustery Perth day.  I am a focused shopper.  I intend to find it in the allocated two hours.

Until next time,

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

On the beach my eye searches for simplicity.  The lone shell among thousands.  A footprint amid a stampede.  It helps me focus.

My aim was to do the same this week.  With an unrelenting schedule of catch up at home for the next few days, the only way out was to create a list of priorities.  It soon became a pleasure in itself to do so.  With time quarantined for each task, I have de-cluttered the work schedule and worked through steadily.

Emails are answered within a time frame.  Reports are being completed by priority.  Phone calls are being fielded within a set time.  Bills are being paid during the time allocated to them.  It is an effective way to work.  It is less stressful as well.

I would regard working hard as one of my strengths.  If it needs doing, I’ll do it.  Finding a rhythm, as old as the sea, has not been easy.  But, I’m getting there …

May your week be productive and joyful.

May you too seek simplicity, and, importantly …. find it.

As always

a dawn bird

 

I was a little girl when I first met him.  He was my uncle by marriage.  He was new in town and met my father first.  On a train, I believe.  He was tired of a single life and wanted to settle down.  My father told him he would introduce him to someone and whipped out a photograph of five young women.  U/E pointed out to one and said “I’d like to meet her!”  My father reassured him he would introduce them later that night, because, “that’s my wife!”  U/Ed eventually married my mother’s younger sister.  Devout and quiet, it was always thought she would become a nun.  But, she married a man who was larger than life and loved every inch of it.

A Major in the Army, U/Ed and my aunt went on to have three children in quick succession.  It was the Indo-China War of the 1960s when he left them behind, the last one being an infant in arms.  His helicopter was shot down and he was the lone survivor.  He was lying in snow for several days, waiting for help.  He died just when it was within sight.  He was in his thirties.  I remember my mother wailing when we heard he was missing in action.  The news of his death a few days later made her almost catatonic with grief.  It was a time of confusion for little children.

He died a week before President Kennedy.  Like the world, my mother spun out of control.  But, my aunt, the recent widow, had the strength and grace to write a letter of condolence to Kennedy’s widow.  She received a letter from the White House which she framed and hung on the wall, near the picture of the young husband she just lost.  His absence in her life is still evident.  A great-grandmother now, she only wears colours that symbolise mourning, white, black and blue.  She prays for peace.

Before I married, I lived for many years with a Polish widow who went through the horrors of World War II.  A young mother of three, she finally migrated to Australia in the 1950s via the Siberian concentration camps, with her surviving child.  Her husband never returned home from a trip to town.  Crammed into a cattle wagon, she had to leave her father on a railway station because the authorities considered him too old to work.  She lost a young brother in the skies above Poland.  Her two youngest children died of typhus.  She never danced the polka again.  I know this because she would share stories with me about the woman she was.  She died some years ago.  She is at peace.  But I know, she, too, prayed for peace.

Other than cowering in the dark during the Indo-China War, my experience of war is removed.  Yet, it has left an indelible mark on me.  ‘Warriors’ in the name of any religion make me wary.   They make me pray for peace.

I believe in a world of peace.  I also believe, it comes from within.  I have come to learn, those left behind, believe it too.

Peace and love, from …

a dawn bird

Today is ANZAC Day.  A day of remembrance.  A day to honour those who served their country so others may live in peace.

The bugle has called this morning, in cities and small regional country towns.  The local cenotaph is the landmark where people would have met to mourn their incalculable loss and honour the fallen.

War touches us in many ways.  And, when it does, it is indelible.

There are many symbols in the world today.  Some invoke fear.  But the fragile poppy is poignant.  It symbolises remembrance and hope.  Neither can be underestimated today.

We live in a different world now.  We live with pictures and words.  And, they can be powerful.

The reach of war is shorter.  It is no longer about borders.  It is about ideology.  And, therein lies hope.

If we think differently, we act differently and if we act differently, we are different people.

It is within us to be the change the world needs.

Lest we forget, they died so we may live in peace.

Until next time …

As always,

a dawn bird

I woke to a garden of roses.  Refreshed from recent rain, there is a final flash of colour before the grey of winter sets in.  I spent some time photographing the roses.  There are hundreds in the front garden.  I thought these pictures were the best.  I don’t feel deserving of them.  I rarely take care of them, but they are forgiving, and bloom relentlessly.

I am on a mission to seek a level of perfection.  Not perfectionism.  But perfection.  The kind that gives me contentment and peace.  In nature it comes from order.  I am trying to mirror the same.

I spent most of the morning de-cluttering the home.  It is more spacious with a new energy now.  There is a certain satisfaction that comes from getting rid of things, and sometimes, feelings, too.

I recall as a young child when I lost a school book, my father would say, “If there’s a place for everything and everything is in its place, you would not lose anything”.  He was so right.  I’m combining his thinking with the ‘Kon Mari’ method for de-cluttering.   The results are astounding.  I started with my pantry.  It is exactly as I arranged it some months ago.  Soon my whole home will be the way I want it.

It can’t happen too soon!

Have a wonderful weekend!

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

I recall, my mother, like mothers do, gave a lot of advice to her children.  The one piece of advice I am getting more practiced at, is a simple one.  When I left home she said, “You will have friends but take time to know who your well wishers are.” It takes a special skill to do this and acquiring it does not come easy to those who value honesty underpins all relationships, be it family, friendship or business.  Business is easy to define.  But how do we define family and friendship?

I recently noticed someone on social media had nearly two thousand friends.  Why?  Does a click of a button define friendship?  Blood and longevity are unreliable measures.  A more reliable one is a sense of emotional safety.  I know I have been drawn to others because I have felt safe with them.  Their age, physical appearance, poor health or contrariness, their standing in life, does not matter because I value their company.  It is that simple for me. So my social network is a small one.  It is the way I like it.

There is one friend who means a lot to me.  We met in 1978 when she was my supervisor.  She turns 81 this week.  Her voice is exactly the same as it was when I first met her.  She has been my confidante, my friend, my mother, my sister, my therapist, my noisiest cheerleader.  She is my emotional touchstone.  I have not seen her in years but we talk by phone and our friendship is nurtured by these moments.  I still keep in touch with other friends I worked with in the late 1970s.  We may not meet often because life gets in the way, but we share a warmth that can only be generated by common memories.  We always wish well for each other.  I am due to have dinner with two other friends this week.  I haven’t seen them for a while.  The anticipation floods me with warmth.  I am looking forward to some good old fashioned catch up.

I have other people in my life who set off a silent alarm in me.  I have no words for why this happens.  The discomfort of wariness is a good indicator when I let my guard down.  There have been times when I have shared my good news with them and have received nothing but a negative slant on every aspect of the event.  During times of anxiety they have fostered more, through silence.  I recall another friend who visited my first new home.  It was during the early 1980s when single women found it difficult to get a home loan.  I was thrilled with my achievement of being an owner of a custom built home.  She walked around without a word and then stated the hook for the dishcloth was in the wrong place in the kitchen.  I never invited her to my home again.  As Maya Angelou said, “when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

At times of unease I turn to another friend who calls it the way it is.  He says what I need to say but find it difficult to articulate.  He gives me the vocabulary for the feeling.  It helps me process and sift the wheat from the chaff.

These are not all my friends.  I do have more!  But, for now, they help me tell my story.

So it is not surprising I am guided by the philosophy, life is always about quality not quantity.  Friendship is as fragile, and as beautiful, as a leaf suspended in space.  Whether or not someone enhances my experience of life, is an important determinant for me.  It is the gate that allows it to open again or remain firmly closed.  I have a simple explanation for this.

At my age, the journey has shortened.  Nearly at summit, I travel light.  For the rest of my journey, I am only willing to accept fellow travellers who encourage me to take the next step safely and steady me when it falters.  It is how I define being emotionally safe with others.  It is in the voice of those who gently but firmly guide you away from exploitative situations saying, “tomorrow will be a better day” and you believe them.  Importantly, they believe it too.

They are special people.  They do not define their relationship with you by being there prominently when you crumble.  They define it by noticing the cracks and leading you away discreetly before the world implodes around you. They show they value you and your emotional safety.

They are not always family.  Not always friends.  They are what my mother would call, well-wishers.

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

I bought the house, your home, not long ago.  I viewed it with a critical eye.  Well built, with renovations I planned to make it contemporary.  I am familiar with the trends of the real estate market.  My plan was to get off at the next high.  I made a list as I walked around the property for the first time.  Was that an ornamental fruit tree?  Useless!  It had to go.  That straggly tall bush was tagged for mulching, so also the trees with a footpath that led to nowhere.  In its place would be a garden with formal lines.  French Provincial was the template, to reflect the plan indoors.  Box hedges would divide spaces neatly.  Topiary plants would stand tall in stone pots like sentinels.  A wooden deck, outdoor kitchen and swimming pool would replace the area where unwanted foliage once grew.  The list completed, I stamped the plans “Mine”!

Before the ink dried, the ornamental tree glowed with exquisite lanterns and soon rained mulberries on the cherubs.  The green trees turned white and laid down a carpet of jasmine.  The straggly tall bush, the Crepe Myrtle, morphed into a Vegas showgirl with plumes of bright pink.  A star!  Her appearance on centre stage is brief.  The roses, after their climb, sagged with delight.  The blue plumbago behind the shed bloomed incessantly, saying seasons be damned!  The honeysuckle vine crept along the perimeter protectively and one day, while in its perfumed embrace, the afternoon sea breeze whispered, “Yes, all yours” and I was humbled.

Single and an empty nester, you sold it.  Single and an empty nester, I bought it.  Your house is slowly becoming my home.  I am yet to unpack, so the rooms are still empty of furniture but overflow with potential.  There are rooms earmarked with hope, creativity, largesse, hospitality, laughter and, dare I say, one with an impossible dream.  The study is over crowded and where reality takes up most space.  It is also a room that gives me a beautiful glimpse of your vision.  It overlooks the roses.

I no longer want a formal garden with lines drawn with clinical precision.  I want one that reflects life … joyful, unpredictable, adaptable, forgiving of trial and error.  I want asymmetry.  I want incongruity.  I think I am achieving this.  It is now my ragtag garden where a Cape Gooseberry bush grows wild.  A few statues delight the eye.  I found the statue in Kalgoorlie.  She is ‘Waiting for Jasmine’.  The chilled cherubs give me pause to stop and reflect.  The path to nowhere is now well worn.  Autumn is colourful.  Spring appears in the air first.

I am getting to know the garden you left behind through the seasons.  Each time I return from my trips, I walk around and look for a surprise.  I am never disappointed.

It is Earth Day today.  It is only fitting I acknowledge your spirit in my garden.  I am a realistic.  I cannot save the planet.  But, I have realised by nurturing your vision, I am contributing in a small way.  The garden has become my sanctuary, shared with the rainbow lorikeets and other garden visitors.

The garden you planted brings joy to my friends across the world too.  It is no longer your place, nor mine.  It is communal.  It is ours.  It reflects the message of today.  This is Earth, Our Planet.

My son has a favourite tee shirt with a slogan that says, ‘Look after the planet.  It’s where I keep all my stuff’.  The garden you have left behind is where I leave mine.  I now travel lighter.

Through your vision, you left behind the unsolicited gifts of anticipation and optimism.  It came from your gardener heart.  They now nestle in mine.

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

 

An oasis is a place in the desert that has water and is fertile.  The rigid foam that secure flowers in an arrangement is also called an oasis.  So is that quiet place in one’s mind that is fertile, and anchors one’s spirit.  Ordinarily none of these would describe the place I am headed to.  But, I admit to being proved wrong.

I am going to mining country again.  Checking the temperature is part of preparation.  It promises to be 40⁰ C on both days, 20 degrees higher than home.  Karratha is approximately 1500 km north of Perth.  The hotel, some two years old, seems to have been developed at the end of the mining boom.  It is located a short distance from the centre of town and is surrounded by rugged outcrops of rocks and spinifex.

After sleeping well I find, the sun is two hours away, so I get some work done and then wait for it with a coffee.  At first light I step outside my chilled room.  Waking to frangipanis and warmth is a delicious feeling.  Inside the perimeter of the hotel is an oasis.  The frangipanis and yellow trumpet flowers catch the sun, as they do my eye.  The ixora, in pink, white, orange and red are planted generously around the property, interspersed with delicate coral bush, now in flower.

The birds arrive around 7 am.  They must know when the garden has been watered.  They fly between boughs of leaves and bathe in the droplets caused by movement.  The smaller white plumed honeyeaters are feeding without much noise, until I open my door.  My presence agitates them.  They protest, but remain focused on their routine.  So do the brown honey eaters.  Slightly larger they are unable to balance on the delicate coral bush, so they feed off the flowers that lie on the gravel, weighted down from moisture.  Soon a flock of tiny zebra finch arrive.  They swarm and cluster on the lawn in groups of 10-30.  Almost comical, their birdcall sounds like a vintage doll.  The kind you tip over and it wails.

Once done, the birds chase each other incessantly.  Their playfulness is joyous.  They delight in brief encounters.  As do I when a honeyeater, with a yolk yellow head lands on the light in front of me.  Then bigger honeyeaters arrive.  Their beaks are longer and sharper.  Their profile is predatory.  I know people like this and like the birds, I have learnt to keep them at a distance.

The work day has its challenges, mostly from heat and constant air conditioning.  A drive to the local jetty is a welcomed break.  Icky mud skippers carpet the shore.  A sea eagle watches from vantage point.  They are an unattractive meal option even to him.  Foraging at the shore, a small wader goes about life as known to it.  The landscape around the jetty is stark and natural.  It is as much an oasis as the garden I’ve come to love.

My return home is a relief from heat.  The sun is setting to my right.  Fiery bright, it mellows with time.  Melting into the horizon it leaves a horizontal rainbow of indigo, blue, yellow, persimmon and black.

My job involves being observant.  Sometimes, I take in more than I say.  I have developed a sense, too, about people.  It is a feeling that has no vocabulary.  Observing without judgment is an acquired skill.  There is an natural quality to this type of observation.  I did not attend university to learn this.  I did it as a child.

Until next time, as always

a dawn bird

 

 

Kalgoorlie-Boulder is about 600 km east-northeast of Perth.  The flight is short.  No more than an hour, often less.  The delays to get in the air, usually longer.

I rush to Perth Airport only to find the check in machines were not working properly.  There was just one frazzled staff member to manage over 100 passengers.  But we boarded on time.

I had an aisle seat in the last row.  The passenger next to me was morbidly obese for his young age.  He sat, tense, with arms gathering his girth away from my seat.  I sensed the sympathetic looks from other passengers as they walked towards me.  The engines start whining.  Ten minutes later we are exactly where we were.  The pilot reports there’s a problem with a light and they need an engineer to check it out.  We sit in a hot plane on the tarmac for 51 minutes, the flight itself is 55.  As we take off the young man relaxes.  Soon we are joined at the shoulder, arm, hip and thigh.

I am always fully booked when working regionally.  My appointments run back to back.  I cherish my lunch hour.  My colleagues have grown accustomed to my need for ‘alone time’.  They know I’m out with my camera.  It centres me mid day and gives me the mental energy I need for the rest of the afternoon.

From a visitor’s perspective there is not much to do in Kalgoorlie.  It is a testosterone filled town of miners.  They are big and burly.  At least, most of them.  They are also family men, working hard for their living.  The town is built alongside the gargantuan maw of the gold open pit mine.  The logic of this escapes me.  The people work hard here.  And, they play hard too.

I believe there must be more bars here than anywhere else I have been in mining country.  In the main part of town they are placed at the four corners of an intersection.  You can stumble out of one bar, cross the road and quench that insatiable thirst at another.  From my observations, people rarely do this.  They favour certain bars.  Or, perhaps the ‘skimpy girls’, whose presence is written in chalk on a blackboard placed strategically on the pavement.  The names, always exotic, change frequently.  I hear some miners sit at the airport bar late Friday to check if their favourite girl has arrived in town that week.  It is the charm of this place, as much as it is not.

But, I love the architecture of this town.  Established in the late 1800s during the gold rush, many of the buildings still have the structure of those days.  The streets are wide.  There is a sense of the Wild, Wild, West.  And, of course, being Australia, there are gum trees and bird life.  The birds are difficult to photograph so I often spend my lunch break in an arboretum and photograph the gum blossoms.  Some species of gum trees are straggly and ordinary with huge branches that hang like hair extensions.  But, close up, the gum nuts, the leaves, the blossoms, are exquisite.

It has taken me all my life to realise this.  I have been looking in the wrong places for gold.  In this town, it grows on trees.

I’m off again north … until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird