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I was disappointed to leave Perth in a bigger plane.  We flew higher and faster.  I missed seeing the sun set over the ocean.  I arrived in Geraldton just after.  The mottled sky promised rain.

Next day I woke to thunder rolling in an arc above me.  Vibrations travel the length of my spine.  A flash of blinding light is the pinprick to the cloud balloon.  At predawn I stay in bed listening to Nature’s rhythm and fine tune mine for the day.

The ‘city’ precinct is edged by the sea, and today it is grey as the sky above it.  Warm, light rain beats down steadily.  After an hour of report writing, I’m restless and yearn to be outdoors.  The only protected area is the small covered strip outside the hotel room. I hear the first birdsong at 6:19 am.  The magpie lark calls with an insistence so I follow it outside.  Synthetic lawn (an abhorrence!) cushions my footsteps.  The yellow-faced honeyeater, similar to what I saw in Karratha, stops long enough to confirm it is exquisite but swift in flight.  My pics are blurry, but you get the idea.

When my day ends I take a short break at Bluff Point where the Chapman River meets Champion Bay.  A pelican lands on a tree stump with the grace and precision of an airliner.  It grooms itself with agility.  A final stretch completes the vanity.  To my right a giant white heron lands, just as gracefully.  It extends until taut.  Now poised and elegant, with astonishing speed, it plunges into the water on the opposite side of where it was looking.  It certainly fooled me, and, no doubt the fish it pulled out of the river.  It walks the edge of the river bank for a while beguiling me with its unadorned beauty.  I find these moments in nature therapeutic.  I don’t just see them.  I experience them.

My childhood home had a garden once.  The gardener tended to the lawn and flowers while squatting.  I remember his once bright coloured turban, wrapped tight with a loose flap hanging over his shoulder.  He wore his simple clothing with an air of dignity.  He painted half bricks, dipping them in white wash and edged the flower-beds for symmetry.  He was proud of his handiwork.  But, fearing snakes, my mother had the lawn and gardens removed when my brother was a toddler.  They were replaced with a cement platform.  The gardener lost his job.  A few fruit trees provided some green to the starkness.  I can still remember the smell of the leaves of the custard apple tree as vividly as I remember the feel of cold, sanitized cement under my feet.

I was a child with imagination.  Fairies and goblins lived at the foot of the garden.  The mother fairies rested in hammocks of lace, while baby fairies smiled in their sleep nearby.  Fathers held on to dragonflies, releasing them when young ones with sparkle in their wings climbed aboard, grandmothers walked in measured steps, their wings fluttered in slow motion, while grandfathers snoozed, neatly folded in half.  After the cement was poured, the fairies left.  Years later Joni Mitchell sang, “they paved paradise …” about my front yard.

Having lost the garden, one of my favourite things to do was to climb the guava tree over the water tank.  Sometimes, I read my Enid Blyton books up there.  At other times, I lay stomach down on a sprawling branch, limbs hanging limp and pretended I was a leopard.  I watched the home help scrub with coconut husks and ash the brass water vessels that shone like gold from the effort.  The women gossiped and laughed with ease while precious water trickled to just under the rim.   They helped lift the vessels on each other’s heads and swayed home in careful steps, from the weight of it.  I climbed down the tree into teen years.  They were less joyous.

As a child I was an observer.  My eye perceived beauty in ordinary experiences.

Some things never change.  So, I remain …

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

I woke to sadness this week.  The realisation I would have been celebrating 30 years of marriage, hung over me like the grey sky.  I lay in bed briefly thinking about this and then drew the blinds open.  To find a broken white picket fence outside my hotel room was intensely symbolic.  The irony!  I had to share the moment with a friend.

I cannot remember the date of my divorce.  I should have processed the events of that time but chose not to.  Survival had the higher priority.  I recall not telling anyone about my marriage breakup until 18 months later when my boss wanted me to go interstate for a week’s training and I had to decline.  He was stunned he had not picked up on any distress.  He asked me a simple question, “Why didn’t you tell me?”  I realised in that moment, because had I disclosed it in words, my situation would be reality.  And, the reality was horrendous and continued to be for many years.

I have had to work hard to establish myself in a career that provides well for me and my children.  Life would have been easier had I the backup of a financial settlement.  But, I would have paid the price in acrimony and the children may not had enjoyed the good relationship they have with their father.  On a personal level, drawing a line with dignity was of paramount importance for me.  And, like the character played by Anthony Hopkins in ‘The Remains of the Day’, it came with a price.

Despite the law being favourable to mothers with young children, I walked away with nothing but the wealth of holding the hands of my children for the next twenty years.  I believe to this day, I had the better deal.  But, I admit to a moment of confusion and resentment this week.  A rare moment for me.  Perhaps it is because of a busy month on the road, which can be lonely, while someone else is enjoying the benefits of companionship.

Seated on the broken picket fence was the omnipresent Willy Wagtail.  Almost sensing my mood, he looked at me disapprovingly, then dropped lightly to the ground and strikes a pose.  The movement distracted me from my thoughts.  The juxtaposition of black, white and gold centred me again.  The rain had kept me trapped indoors but I could still see something beautiful.  The circumstances of the moment seemed so relevant to my life.

Outside the street was lined with trees that I love.  The flowers are halfway between a hibiscus and poppy.  They bud in yellow, burst open like the mid day sun, before turning peach when losing their bloom.

While photographing them, one dropped to the ground with a plop.  It landed with dignity.  On its feet.  Still clothed in a voluminous gown of diaphanous folds.

For some, life can be like that.

Until next time …

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

I returned to Perth to a garden full of roses.  It rained while I was away.

A minor storm has lasted all night.  I woke to find the flowers decimated and rose petals scattered everywhere.  As I write, thunder rolls above me like a marble.  Evenly.  From one end of the horizon to the other.  The rumble, the ominous warning, is a stark contrast to where I have spent the last three days.

The weather in Esperance can be unpredictable.  During this trip the cloud formations were unusual.  A bright orange cloud, as far as the eye could see, hung low.  It resembled the inside of a Violet Crumble.  At lunch time, a solar halo, was spectacular.  Maybe they appear frequently here, just like double rainbows do, as I seemed to be the only person looking at it.

I woke to the sounds of the waves.  The Bay is across the road.  It glistens in the dark.  Within a half hour period, I cover a radius of 10 kms with urgency.  Lake Warden, Woody Lake and the Bay being the first ports of call.  I also go up to the Rotary Hill Lookout to get a picture of town and the iconic jetty.  Unfortunately, Tanker Jetty, some 80 years old, is due to be demolished.  It is unsafe and restoration costs are prohibitive.  Regular maintenance may have helped preserve history.  Since learning this I view the Jetty with great sadness.  It is still beautiful and serene so I enjoy its presence in my life for whatever time left.

Lake Warden delights with puddles of pink just before dawn.  I spend only a few minutes here and then to Woody Lake.  The birdlife here is a treat.  Usually there is a flotilla of several hundred black swans and huge pelicans on the Lake.  This trip I am surprised by the appearance of an Australian white ibis.  It is magnificent as it steps into a pool of shimmering gold.  A white faced heron flies in and perches on a tree.  With an air of aloofness, it deliberately ignores everyone.  The kestrel was nowhere to be seen but has looked at me with curiosity previously.  The seagulls are always cheeky.  They are like gate crashers at a party.  Hell bent on fun where they should not be!  I can’t help but enjoy their antics.

I’m glad I made time for me in Esperance.  I have brought home some of those memories to enjoy while I am in a twilight zone.  I have a lot of work in the coming two months and then will have to ride out the vagaries of bean counting for the coming year.  Past experience tells me, all is well.  But, there are times the stress of uncertainty is unsettling.  Then, I remind myself, I am human.

I’m off to the Mid-west today.  I’m looking forward to watching the sun set over the ocean, as we fly low for an hour.

Until my return … as always,

a dawn bird

 

This is a belated post.  Yesterday, I was sitting at a small café in a tiny farming town of Kellerberrin, Western Australia.  I have passed this way many times but there is nothing much here, so stopping was a perceived waste of travel time.

Previously, I had noticed a small café with its stark black and white signage, “Coffee Food Catering” and a few plastic chairs out front.  Not exactly the most alluring of signs.  Plastic strips hanging above the door frame, caught the breeze noisily.  The welcome out front is typical of an Australian ‘corner shop’ in a small town.  There are no fast food outlets here.  I assumed it was small shop well used by truck drivers.  One day, in desperation for early coffee, I stopped by.  To my amazement I had entered into an Aladdin’s Cave of gourmet delights.  All locally sourced and home made.  Starting a conversation with the owner was easy.  A love of food does this among strangers.

In the early 1980s the Prince and Princess of Wales visited Perth.  I was doing some banking in the city and got caught up in the crowd.  While waiting for the city to return to normal, an Indian lady next to me started a conversation.  “I know you, child”, she says to me, thoughtfully.  “What’s your name?”  (Those of you familiar with the Aunty Maggy videos on You Tube, this style of conversation among strangers, will resonate).  After a few exchanges, none of which satisfied her curiosity, she asked, “Are you related to Isidore Coelho”, peering into my face, searchingly.  I told her I was his granddaughter.  With a voice filled with emotion, she told me, she had looked at his picture for years, almost every day.  It is at the front of ‘The Chef’.  She stated, “You look like him!”

‘The Chef’, she went on to tell me, was part of the bridal trappings for Goan and Mangalorean brides.  Prior to settling in Perth, her husband was a Captain in the Indian Navy.  She took the book around the world.  A prized possession.  Her kitchen bible.  It was part of India she was unwilling to renounce.

I am unsure if I look like my grandfather, but I have inherited his passion for writing.  I am happiest when my fingers are flying over the keyboard.  Sometimes, they go faster than my thoughts.  I have also inherited his love for good food and I love to cook as well.  Although I’m not sure whether he spent time in a kitchen.

It is only fitting that I remember him now as it is his birth anniversary this week.

Isidore Coelho, the author, needs no introduction to those who know his work.  But few knew the man, because he was private and humble.  To us, his family, he was remarkable.  He was the only grandparent I knew, and, for only a few short years.

Among other office jobs, he worked as a Morse Coder during the British Raj in India.  He never reached the heights he should have because of the way of the times.  So his intelligence and creativity found better expression in writing and authorship.

A prolific writer, he was published in several languages in India.  Long before computers, he wrote with a fountain pen on foolscap paper.  I recall, a ‘nib’ and inkwell, too.  A memory of him hunched over a desk, writing, is a favourite one, and etched deep.  It was where he died, doing what he loved best.

A widower, he mourned the loss of his beloved Sabina, for the rest of his days.  They had five surviving children and had lost the sixth, a young son, Stanley, a teenager, to illness.  Stanley was a brilliant student.  His full potential forever lost.  It was a grief my grandfather carried in his very being.  I’m sure it cut him in half some days.  On others, it made him ten feet taller.  But at all times, my grandfather wrote.  And, he wrote.  And, he wrote.

Although my grandmother and Stanley died long before I was born, it is my first memory of watching someone experiencing loss.  I take after my grandfather.  I tend to carry loss within me.  I rarely cry tears.  Except, in words.

The name Isidore Coelho evokes cooking from the heart.  His book is part of kitchen lore for many.  Author of ‘The Chef’, little did he know his book would be prized by new brides and taken to far corners of the world.  Little did he know with the advent of the internet, ‘The Chef’ would still be sought, and invoke chatter among strangers for decades after his earthly journey ended.

Today, I am ten feet tall because I am his descendant.

Little did he know, this would be possible.

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is so much about the world we know about and if we didn’t, we certainly have resources to find out.  But how often do we reflect on what lies within?  How do we explore that unknown terrain?  At what point in childhood did we hear a voice that said certain doors will remain closed and inaccessible?  Somewhere in memory, I have retained this because I often feel, I’m incapable.

As a child I had a burning desire to be an airline stewardess (terminology of the day) or a surgeon.  I was not a beauty queen but my lofty and incompatible ambitions resembled those heard from the most ‘beautiful’ women in the world.  My ambitions were crushed when I was told (in that era), women could not be surgeons.  So I focused on joining the airline only to be dissuaded by my mother because I did not meet the subjectivity of glamour associated with the profession.  Decades later I was on a plane with a frightened child behind me who was travelling alone.  Hearing her squealing in fear at take off, I reached over and held her hand.  I asked the crew if she could sit with me and spent the whole flight drawing with her.  I have never enjoyed a six year old’s company more than I did that day.  We engaged in a game of guess my drawing.  As I disembarked the crew thanked me warmly.  They asked me if I was a teacher or nurse.  I am neither.  When I told them my profession, one of the ladies said, “Oh! that’s what I wanted to do at university but found out I could not get the grades I needed”.  I smiled and told her, she was doing what I wanted to do, decades earlier.  She was tall, slender, beautiful, charming.  I am not.  Yet, we had both found what lies within.

I’ve always regretted not having the skills to be a painter.  I woke this morning and realised it is an odd regret.  I really don’t know if I can paint, or not.  I’ve never tried.  But, I have the urge to pick up a paintbrush, swirl it through colour and apply it to canvas.  I usually feel this way when I am in the north of the State.  Yet, I know from experience, painting what you find there, is an audacious act.  Even for skilled and talented artists.  They never capture the true vibrancy of colours.  When they come close to it, their attempt looks garish.  Almost cheap.  The canvas you pick up randomly at market stalls. But I have found some with talent who paint the still life of gorges, wildlife, birdlife, and portraits of people who live here.  Perhaps, they too have come to realise, sunrise and sunset is best left to Nature to put on her canvas.

Indigenous artists take a different approach.  They do ‘dot’ painting.  It is abstract.  It is interpretive, for artist and art lover.  But then, isn’t art interpretive?  Finding meaning.  Finding connection.  Between artist and subject.  Between artist and viewer.  Like my little companion on the flight.  She did not draw a tree.  She drew a Christmas tree.  One with coloured baubles and stars that didn’t shine, except in her words.  And, presents, big presents under the tree.  People are creative spirits.  We seek to connect.  We seek to dream.  It is in human nature to do this.  It is survival.  Whatever the choice of medium.

Photography is instinctive and interpretive as well.  I have a visceral response to almost everything I see on Cable Beach, Broome.  The russet pindan cliffs are a perfect backdrop to the sea.  They ignite at sunset.  The early morning sun rises behind them and highlights a colour palette in the rocky outcrops.  It takes your breath away.  The iconic camels languidly walking back home with keeper, blend in and yet, distinctive too.  For an unattractive creature with asymmetrical features and cranky disposition, they certainly have a sexy, slow rhythmic walk!  They are mesmerising to watch.

I’m planning a few days of rest up north in the coming weeks.  I need to be in a natural art gallery again.

For now, I’m headed back on the road.  Until we meet again …

As always,

a dawn bird

I’m in Busselton, just a short 45 minute drive further south from Bunbury.  It takes me an hour and twenty minutes due to road works.  I have carried the misery of gridlocked city traffic with me to the country.  I work the day steadily.  By four pm the stress of early delay catches up with me.  A long monotonous trip home is shelved and I decide to make this place home for a night.

On a previous trip I succumbed to the seduction of Geographe Bay, and return to it.  My heart skips a beat.  It is blue as his eye when I get to its shore.  Soon, I, along with a seagull, watch it turn from sedate as silver to brashy show time at sunset.

I wake before the sun, dress in the dark, work for an hour and leave my room hurriedly.  I am not the first one at the Bay, now serene as a nun, amid the cacophony of raucous Little Corellas.  Three workers in high viz clothing are a vivid splash against the grey sombre.  A carer and an elderly lady in a wheelchair are there too, talking in hushed tones.  They have been here for a while.  A half eaten plate of home made sandwiches sits on the stone wall before them.  A father, power walking his infant in a stroller, leaves the mother home to catch up on sleep.  An experience I know well from years ago and a time of my life that brings with it mixed emotion.  I am still uncertain whether the end of a long relationship was meant to be punitive.  But I do know, like a seagull, I walk away from the memory of it, head held high.

I have come to visit royalty of this region, the Busselton Jetty.  The 1.8 km jetty, the longest in the Southern Hemisphere, is a good walk at any time.  It curves lightly, like a genteel arm, across the shoulder of the Bay.  Like me, another photographer packs away gear and leaves reluctantly.

I decide to treat myself to breakfast at The Goose on the shores of the Bay.  It is perfect!  I share the moment instinctively with a friend thousands of km away.  I find equilibrium again.  The incongruity of timeless Motown beats in the background is just an added bonus.  Fascinated by their simplicity, which some regard as blandness, I watch seagulls.  They are a constant reminder to me, ordinary can be perfect, and, especially when silhouetted against the most glamorous of backgrounds.  Yes, despite all odds, I am happy.  When my earthly journey ends, I want my children to know I am still travelling, and as before, chasing sunrises, sunsets and seagulls.

The South West of this State nurtures me.  I have been convinced for years, if my vital signs were checked just past Windich Bridge, they would read within the normal range.  I love the lifestyle of fresh produce, less reliance on super markets, beaches (although you can find them anywhere along the coast of WA, they seem more accessible regionally), and diversity of birdlife.  It is an easier pace.  I also know should I leave the city, I will never return.  Ambivalent it may be, but I have a relationship with Perth.  It has been home for over forty years.  Walking away is a major decision.  But, I have walked away before, holding the hands of little children, and with the crushing weight of love in my heart.

I started my business with the phrase leave the ordinary behind.  Perhaps I need to give serious thought to applying it to other areas of my life.  I offer a silent toast to this option sipping the last drops in the mason jug, aptly, or perhaps, prophetically named, ‘Happiness’ (beetroot, orange and lemon).

For now, there’s more travel, more photographs, more words to come … until then,

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

The sea is pink.  It is dawn in Bunbury.  Behind me the sun is emerging, as is the Leschenault Inlet.  I am oriented and cue in to my day.  The short drive to the Marlston Waterfront is where I’m headed.  I edge out of my parking bay.  Cautiously.  There are four police patrol motorbikes crowding two bays to my left.  There is a booze bus and more patrol bikes beyond that. The city police are in town to keep people safe on their return home from the Easter break.  I make a mental note of this and keep my foot light on the pedal.

The drive is less than a minute.  At the Waterfront the sun arrived just before me.  Perfect timing.  I have photographed this area at sunrise many times before.  Across Koombana Bay is the Port.  Like celebrity and politics, Nature has the finest PR.  The Eastern sky casts the area in the best light until the glare of high noon highlights the industrial aspects of it.

A movement in the water distracts me.  I lean over the parapet.  A glide.  It disappears before my mind fully comprehends it.  Is it bird, a snake, (and with apologies to Nessie), perhaps I’ve discovered the Marlston Monster?  I track the surface of the water where the ripple is almost imperceptible.  A whoosh of big wings and seemingly from underwater, it takes flight.  I get a blurry shot.  Startled, the mate breaks through the water ceiling.  The slender, reed-like neck and head is elegant and exquisite.  It tenses for a nanosecond and then, it’s gone.  I return the next morning, hoping to experience another encounter.  And, I do.  But, in a different way.  A splash and a hiss and I catch a lone dolphin as it disappears into golden waters.  I catch my breath to tuck a wisp of flyaway magic into memory.

The Welcome Swallows chase each other, rest momentarily, and like sunflowers, turn to face the sun.  A glint of sunlight on a russet feather is what I’m hoping to catch.  After twenty minutes of persistence, as if he knew what I’m looking for, one bold swallow perches and stares me down.  He meets me halfway.  I don’t get the picture I’m chasing.  But, I get a few while cruising.  It is a compromise I accept.  Life is like this sometimes.  You get more, but it equates to far less.

My day is crowded with many unexpected delights during this trip.  The last photograph is in words.  At kindergarten 3 year olds were seated in a circle, and given a choice for morning greeting:  hello, G’day, hola, bon jour, konichiwa.  Matching country flags were tagged to the written words, presumably to teach colours.  The children choose bon jour unanimously.  Hearing the little ones struggle with unfamiliarity, try harder and be successful with prompts was a delight.  My eyes, twin suns, shone brighter as each child raised their hand to acknowledge their name being called and in turn, greeted their peers.  An occasional, tiny frustrated voice, “I can’t say it!” got a response, “you can try, just try”.  Encouragement without judgment!  I love the philosophy of this.  It is quite possible these children will not grow up to be intolerant adults who shout, “Speak in English” to people who talk in their native language in public.

My children attended child care from a young age.  I had no choice.  I have and continue to be judged by these circumstances by some whose support in those years would have been invaluable.  I do not share my journey of single motherhood with them any more because every challenge of childhood development has been hung on this sharp hook.  On rare occasions when I talk about this regret, my children are quick to point out.  They thoroughly enjoyed child care.  It was where they played with friends.  Years later, this trip confirmed it for me.  It is a place where, sometimes, you start your day with a “bon jour”.

It’s a good place to leave you …

As always,

a dawn bird

 

In silence, the jasmine has rained perfume overnight.  The aroma is indescribable.  The indulgence of showers over two days has made it come alive from dormancy.  It is covered in bunches of blooms.  The buzz of bees is almost industrial level.

Depending on culture and view point, the jasmine flower has many symbolisms.  I find them interesting.  My garden, planted by the previous owner, has several different types of jasmine.  A climber that covers an arbour, a small shrub that has black berries which shed when ripe and two towering shrubs that are about ten feet tall.  The previous owner’s vision resonates with me.  Jasmine, “gift from God”, some consider is also a symbol of motherhood.  Others say it is God’s love.  These are some of my favourite symbolisms and they speak to my experience today.

Feeling the family was close to stepping  over a precipice, because of events in the last week, has been daunting.  I went to bed last night determined to find my balance again.  I leave home for a few days today.  Standing in the walkway between shrubs, I find the peace I’m searching for in its embrace.  I re-read my daughter’s texts from yesterday.  I am standing in a chapel as I receive her love.  As in Nature, life shows us a little bit of nurturing goes a long way.  Today, she nurtured me.

It is also from here I view my garden.  It is my touchstone.  There is no other corner that brings me more joy.  From this vantage point, I noticed the palms near the outdoor spa have flowers.  Flowers! on Cocos Palms!  Who knew!  Never having palms in my garden before this comes as a surprise.  This is an area I rarely visit.  It has nothing to attract me.  Until today.

The rain has been the spritzer the plants needed. There is more life in the garden than I anticipated.  Several brown honeyeaters flit around buzzing me with their aerial pursuits.  Their antics take me around the garden, as I chase that one beautiful picture.  But, I think I managed to get two.

I have found my balance.  May you do too, today.

As always,

a dawn bird

To those who believe, Christ was crucified and died on Good Friday.  He rose from the dead on Easter Sunday.  It is the most important and holy feast in the Christian calendar.

As a child growing up in India we were expected, by our parents, to adhere very closely to the Church’s teachings.  They were endorsed even more stringently in the home.  Feast days had certain rituals.  At Easter, my mother would order a dozen hot crossed buns from the only bakery in town during Easter week.  The baker was a Muslim man.  We suppressed our excitement when she did this.  After all, Good Friday was a solemn day.  The cook would have a day off.  No food would be cooked on the day.  We ate warm, fragrant buns for breakfast that came from the oven to the table.  In the days pre-microwave, they were cold for lunch and dinner and a drink of water helped the cinnamon flavoured dough go down.  My parents only ate breakfast as it was considered a day of ‘fasting’, reflection and penance.  There was a service at 3 pm at Church, that commemorated the passion of Christ.  The tabernacle was shrouded in purple.  Adults wore black and children wore white to signify their sense of loss and mourning.  We were expected to attend Church for Easter Vigil on Holy Saturday.  There was no music played between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.  On Easter Sunday there was celebration in Church and our homes.  Christ had Risen.  The tabernacle was unveiled.  We played music.  And, at last, we could try and eat highly decorated hardened sugar Easter eggs at home, without breaking teeth.

Easter had added meaning for me.  I was born on a Good Friday.  A fact that often drew derision from others.  Children can be cruel.  So I never mentioned this to people and fortunately, it was rare for my birthday to fall on a Good Friday.  When it did, the child I was understood, it was not a day of celebration.

I have moved away from organised religion for many reasons.  But I do know I will return to attending Church again one day.  My Faith is stronger than it has ever been.  My non-attendance has had a purpose.  I have nurtured my own relationship with God.  One that has needed time to experience God my way, pray my way but more importantly, to hear what He has to say to me.  Something I did not experience in decades of group prayer.  Perhaps, this was a path I was meant to take.  For now.

I experience Easter differently to what I did as a child.  Yes, Good Friday still is a day of quiet reflection.   It is the only day of the year I will eat hot crossed buns, even though they appear in the supermarket the week after Christmas.  One year, incensed, I recall letting the supermarket manager know how much I disapproved of this practice.  He avoided my gaze in the weeks that followed.

But rather mourn the death of Christ, I experience a sense of anticipation on Good Friday.  He will rise again.  During Holy Week, through prayer, I accompany Christ during the last days of His earthly journey.  I believe for the rest of the year, He accompanies me on mine. The symbolism of Easter has guided me through life.  I know, without exception, no matter what challenge I face, something needs to ‘die’ before it is new again.  Life is a process.  I trust it.

I have shared a picture of dawn at Kooljaman (Cape Leveque), in the far north of Western Australia.  I had visited this place briefly in the year before and wanted to wake here one day.  I knew it would be beautiful.  I was right.  It did not disappoint.  Catching that first ray of light was breathtaking.  It split through the dark and shone like a searchlight.  Like all good things in life, I want to experience the moment again.

My son is joining me for breakfast today.  I will have quality time with him.  My daughter lives too far away to make the journey as she is resting.  We will fill her absence by our love for her.  Her health crisis has held a mirror to us.  Life is precious.  Life is short.  Love is immeasurable.

No matter what your belief system is, if nothing else, may you experience renewal today.  It is the elixir of life.

Until next time,

As always,

a dawn bird

 

I love the word ambivalence.  It is uncertainty that makes you stop long enough to choose.   Much like a moment of decision making, be happy, or not.

I wake each morning at a moment of ambivalence.  That moment where there is ‘twilight’ before day.  Because the State of Western Australia is vast, when I travel I search for this hour on the internet, and set my alarm to it.  Somehow I always wake one minute before the alarm.  I want to be there, ringside, when it happens.  I am never disappointed.  Much like my decision, every day, to be happy.

Last night I received a weather warning and went to bed unsettled.  We were to expect a severe storm with hail and rain of up to 100 mm in some parts.  For me, a good storm is like fine wine.  Best enjoyed in company.  I dislike them when I’m on my own so I did not sleep well expecting the storm to arrive around 1 am, as promised.  Instead, I stayed up to hear the metronome of rain off the roof.  Tap.  Tap.  Tap.

As dawn breaks, it is turning into a steady stream.  The magpie larks are cheering the rain on enthusiastically.  Perhaps, I am not alone after all.  I have company to enjoy the storm.  Should it arrive.

I usually work in the early hours when I’m home.  I’ve learned not to do this as part of self-care when I travel and with good reason.  Catching dawn over Lily Creek Lagoon, Kununurra in the far north with the silhouette of the young boab tree forefront, is unforgettable.  The palm trees against sunrise at Roebuck Bay, and the rocky outcrop at Town Beach, Broome are places I rush to wake to.  The blazing horizon in the Wheatbelt is always spectacular.  The car park at the jetty in Jurien Bay mirrors delight.  The surreal calm of Esperance Bay with its historic, iconic jetty in the background is something to be experienced.  These are seductions I willingly succumb to.

Mornings are where I plan my day.  I arrive at a destination in my mind.  Today I have two days of work to catch up.  I will complete my tasks happily.  My family is well and happy.  I ask for no more.  The thought gives my feet and fingers wings.  I can achieve what I plan to do today.  May you do too.

Until next time,

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

Contemplation

It has been a tumultuous return to Perth.  My daughter became unwell suddenly and had to be hospitalised.  I woke to a morning feeling numb.  The effort to suppress the worst case scenario took its toll and  left me spent and exhausted.  Formulating a prayer, starting with a simple “please” seemed impossible in thought and action.

It is often promoted during crisis or trauma, one of the best things one can do is adhere as close to routine as possible.  It corrects the imbalance.  So I reached out for my prayer book.  It is how I start my day.  This may not mean much to people who do not have the same belief system as me.  But, perhaps the story I am about to relate will resonate more widely …

About 25 years ago I worked in an office environment and had a supervisory role.  It was a time when people were experiencing repetitive strain injury (RSI).  An older woman had been ‘floating’ around the various departments while she recuperated from her injury.  As she had run out of options, I offered to take her on with limited duties.  Being older than the other staff in the office, she had a higher standard for herself and others.  This made it difficult for her to adjust, so I supported her more closely than I did the other staff.  I noticed she was struggling for a few days with a cold but she was adamant not to take any more sick leave than she had taken for her injury.  I finally convinced her just before a long weekend to have a few days off.  I gave her some magazines I had in my office to enjoy while she rested.  She called me a few days later in tears.  She had read an article in one of the magazines on breast cancer, discovered she had a symptom that was not a lump and hastened to see her doctor.  She had an ultrasound and was scheduled for an immediate mastectomy.  She returned to work some months later with a gift for me.  A small prayer book called “God Calling – a daily devotional”.  It is based on the Anglican faith.  She always credited me for “saving her life”.  Never did I get a chance to tell her, she saved mine multiple times and sometimes, every day.  I have read a page a day since it was given to me.  Despite all the years, the message is always fresh and relevant.  For example, today’s reading.

*****

Wonders Will Unfold

I am with you.  Do not fear.  Never doubt My Love and Power.  Your heights of success will be won by the daily persistent doing of what I have said.

Daily, steady persistence.  Like the wearing away of a stone by steady drops of water, so will your daily persistence wear away all the difficulties and gain success for you, and secure your help for others.

Never falter, go forward so boldly, so unafraid.  I am beside you to help and strengthen you.

Wonders have unfolded.  More still will unfold, beyond your dreams, beyond your hopes.

Say, “All is well” to everything.  All is well.

*****

The ride to the hospital with my son opened a new dialogue between us about religion and spirituality.  I have raised my children by modelling my faith rather than preaching it to them.  Anxious about his sister’s health, he reflected softly, I am dealing with the current crisis so differently than I have other crises.  I was able to share with him I have found something that works for me.

I spend a few minutes every day in contemplation.  It is a time of renewal for me.  It is healing.  Simple prayers of All is well, Be still and know I am God, I am with you – is all I need as a compass to guide me through whatever the day brings.  The camera is another aspect of my daily routine.  I find new meaning every day.  For example, I woke one morning and found the cherub contemplating a fallen leaf in front of it.  Autumn may have been the catalyst for its descent, but it shone golden when it came to rest.  Life, as in Nature, is all about perspective.

Today, I watched my daughter comfort her brother who sat with his arms wrapped around himself protectively.  “I’m okay”, she said repeatedly as she read his anxiety accurately.  They used humour to alleviate the distress.  Her youth seemed awkward and out of place in the Coronary Care Unit.  I stepped back to watch the dynamics between them.  It has taken years to get to this stage.  She has matured into being his big sister again.  I left the hospital knowing she is right.  She is really okay.  All is well.

As always,

a dawn bird

The land is expansive, forbidding, warning and I wake early, as usual, to watch it emerge into something recognisable … expansive, forbidding, warning.  I drive into town for a coffee and find the natural vibrancy of the land is already stained with the distinctive yellow and orange high viz clothing of the workers in these parts.  In boom time the tide comes in and it is a sea.  For now, the tide is out and the debris behind is unmissable.

I finish work on my first day and pull into a side access road, just off the main highway.  A glittering disc has already blended into the rim of the earth.  In its wake, shawls of pastel clouds float on a horizon that defies description.  I wait patiently to catch a break in traffic and decide to do the same as the miners.  I end my day.  At the foot of the highway, just above town, the moon is Salome, dancing her dance with gossamer veils until she emerges, naked and luminous.  The miners have seen this before.  They focus on getting home.  Undeterred, she is high in the sky seducing Jupiter, burning bright.  And, I , the observer, am enchanted.

The land around here is either flat or has angry ridges.  This is mineral country.  People come here for work.  In response to their ‘colonisation’, Nature erupts like acne, with rocks strewn across the face of the landscape.  It leaves behind mottled scars that never heal.  This is country that resonates in the words of the Australian Dorothea Mackellar, ‘I love a sunburnt country’.  I do too.  The poem “My Country” speaks to my heart.  I want to cast a soothing hand over the highly subjective and divisive concept of mineral resources.

I drive some 40 km north of Karratha to Wickham.  I am running two hours behind time with only 20 minutes for lunch.  I drive further north to Point Samson for a better meal than what I can find in Wickham.  The seagull and pied magpie lark keep me company.  And, the white powder puff lilly pilly flower mesmerises in sea breeze.  I am 1500 plus km north from home.  This is another land.  Another time.  The landscape here is still untouched.  Spinifex grow among rocks, and clumps of white granite bubble like foam from red earth.  I find peace without looking for it.

I wake next morning in my hotel, flanked by glowering iron ore ridges.  The garden is an oasis.  I walk around and find the omnipresent Willy Wagtail.  He, in turn, has found himself in a puddle of gold.  The brown honeyeater catches my eye, and dipping deep for nectar, he carries me home on his wings.  A white plumed honeyeater with its exquisite tiny yellow face perches within a few feet from me.  He looks at me intently.  I am the curiosity.  I try and focus my camera.  I zoom in closer.  He stares down my elongated eye.  He is perfect.  My hands shake with delight.  I fumble.  I miss the shot.  He’s gone.  But not before leaving his memory.

On the last morning, I linger in the garden.  A yellow trumpet flower is a face with a smile.  A sudden gust of wind and it collapses on itself and smiles brighter again.  I almost say, “bless you”.  I wonder if I have just witnessed a flower sneeze.

I linger longer, a few more minutes among the scores of frangipani trees.  It is already hot and somewhat humid.  The perfume and heat transport me in thought.  The flowers remind me of Broome.  They have sunshine in their hearts.  So I borrow some to take home in mine … to share with you.

Until my next trip …

As always,

a dawn bird

 

It was pre-dawn when I woke this morning.  Soon the mudlarks and magpies started to sing and signal it was time to get ready for the day ahead.

I’m leaving again today for the north.  To mining country.  And, to somewhere I haven’t been before.  Previously, the thought of travel to new places in the regional areas filled me with dread.  No more!

The feeling of fear and excitement is generated in the same part of the brain.  It is perception that distinguishes one from another.  I anticipate each new experience by researching the area. Driving on country roads in Australia is hazardous.  Distance between one town and another is deceptive.  Adding another half an hour to travel time is a must.  An unsolicited travel tip from a frequent traveller.  Roads are only as safe as the drivers on them and are either straight and monotonous, or winding and with surprises.  Visitors to these parts of the world, fail to appreciate this.  On the other hand, familiar travellers on these roads, may drive with over confidence and impatience.  The vital link between city and country for all kinds of produce and material is the road trains whose enemy is deadlines.  Reflection on road statistics is always sobering.  The numbers are written in small crosses bearing names, by the side of the road.

I’ve learned how to prepare for trips.  Safety first.  Plenty of water for myself.  And, a little extra, just in case.  You can never carry too much water.  A good car that has been serviced.  Telling someone when leaving, what road I’m travelling, estimated arrival time and letting them know I have arrived, is common sense.  Good music.  A handful of organic nuts.  Some fruit.  A muesli bar.  All set.  I then shift my mind into enjoyment mode.

Long before I gained confidence in doing this, I recall a feeling of dread on one trip when I realised, in the middle of a heat wave, I had a stretch of some 70 kms of isolated road ahead of me.  I focused on the destination and missed the journey.

I have since returned to that area several times for work.  There is much to enjoy about the trip.  Flanked by big farms, yes, it is mostly an isolated drive.  When I started to take in the surroundings, I discovered a grove of gum trees, between Three Springs and Eneabba, small towns in the Midwest.   I sometimes stop and eat my lunch here, or just take a break from driving.  It is quiet and peaceful.  During one trip something broke the silence.  Not having seen cars on my journey, my senses accelerated to heightened alert.  I have always regretted watching Wolf Creek!  My eyes scanned trees a short distance away.  Did someone step on a twig?  I scanned the area again and saw no one.  I relaxed and distracted myself by examining the beautiful bark of the gum trees.  Then my eyes caught a movement and travelled higher, high up in the gum trees.  I zoomed in to find a pair of Australian ringnecks hovering over a hollow in a branch.  I clicked.  The sound ricocheted and alerted them.  In the silence of the grove, their raucous indignation at the intrusion is something I always remember vividly.  In rural and remote Australia, Nature rules.  Nature demands respects and gets it.  I cut short my break and left the ringnecks to their parenting.

On roads less travelled I am always the visitor.  Always the observer.  That’s how life is for me.  And, I would not want it any other way.

Until next time, I am off to do more observing

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

I did not know this until today.  In 2012 the UN endorsed the 20^th March as Happiness Day or International Day of Happiness.  Unknowingly, I had endorsed this principle in my own life but as a few minutes in every 24 hours.  I have spent years cultivating a mind framework that nourishes my spirit in a way that I find happiness every day in some form or another.  I’ve searched and finally found the right guidance and tools, for me, to achieve this.

I had never owned a camera until a few years ago.  I did not understand the technicalities of light, shutter speed, etc.  I still don’t.  Digital cameras have made taking a picture easier and I am still a novice.  What I did not need to learn, was already in me.  I am an instinctive and intuitive photographer.  And, there have been many, many moments that still bring joy to me.

Let me share with you a few.

I had finished work in Esperance and wanted to catch one last look at the surf at West Beach.  It was a gloomy, overcast day.  Weather is often changeable in Esperance.  Not to enjoy the fifty shades of blue in the waters in this area, can be a disappointment.  On this evening, cresting Twilight Beach Road, I saw the sun set beyond.  It was fleeting but a moment of pure magic.

I have learned not to be arrogant in my attempts to photograph grand landscapes.  Like the kind one finds up north in the Kimberley region.  The vast, immense land is humbling.  This is ancient land.  Sacred ground.  I did make a feeble attempt or two but now acknowledge my limitations as a photographer.  A return to the region will be to hone my skills.

I have discovered delight at my feet when walking the sands of Cable Beach in Broome and among the clear pools of the mangroves of Cygnet Bay, some 200 km north of Broome.  The carpet of French knot embroidery left behind in the sand by tiny crabs is worth discovering.  It is always a surprise because they appear magically.  Or not.  They remind me of my school days when mastering the intricacies of a French knot was a special achievement and once learnt, I found reason to embroider them repeatedly.  They are my favourite stitch to embroider.  Finding a boab tree in sand always make me smile.  They are a tree that I love (and more on them in another post).

I have also found delight in photographing seagulls.  I love their stance, their profile, their attitude.  They portray, perfectly, a line from the book ‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull’, “To fly as fast as thought, to anywhere that is, you must begin by knowing you have already arrived”.  Seagulls walk like they have arrived!  I’ve learned, over time, visualisation is powerful.  To think you are happy, makes being happy effortless.

My camera has taught me to appreciate the austere land of sheep country in the Midwest, as much as the brilliance of a sunset on Cable Beach, Broome.  The beauty of a passionfruit flower that morphs into a fruit, eagerly sought for its tangy sweetness, when shrivelled and beautiful no more.  It makes me an optimist.

When home I have found things that catch my eye in the garden.  The rainbow lorikeets visit every day.  The mulberry tree, when in fruit, is a favourite stop over for them.  At other times, they forage the new leaves off other trees.  Or the early morning sun light filtered through a leaf gives me new perspective.

With a house that has been under renovations for two years, frequent travel helps me cope with the chaos better than if I was living at home full time.  In the areas where the renovations have been completed, I still despaired.  Then, I discovered the art of declutter, the Japanese Kon Mari Method.  It has changed my life.  The philosophy is a simple one.  Keep what brings you joy.  I started using the method in the kitchen pantry first.  Months on, it is exactly as I organised it.  That is quite a feat in itself.  With young adults who come and go, this is even more remarkable.  I apply the Kon Mari Method to memories, too.  I keep what brings me joy.  It has created a treasure trove for happy hunting and worth foraging on days when the sunlight dims.

I make the effort to nurture friendships that are meaningful to me.  In these days of technology, this is not hard to do.  I have re-established contact with friends from my early primary school years.  Time has stood still for those friendships.  We laugh and talk with the ease like having played in the school yard yesterday.

I am nurturing to those who, I feel, need my understanding far beyond what I thought I was capable of.  Being genuinely empathic of their journey is the best part of me I can give them.  Their recovery to a happier state is an accompanied journey, and I am happy to be a fellow traveller with them.

Others have walked away from me with questions unanswered.  I have come to believe they are taking their own journey towards happiness when they did.

My faith is important to me.  It is an intrinsic part of my thinking and way of being.  I don’t preach it.  I am not skilled at it, so I practice it.  I live it.  It works for me.  Everyday.

On this day when we celebrate happiness, may you find, as the saying goes, happiness is not a destination, but a journey.  I am enjoying mine. And, happy travels to you, until we meet again.

As always,

a dawn bird

 

 

I heard them long before I saw them.  They are noisy in the scrub that border the shores of Jurien Bay in the north to Esperance in the south east.  Curious I attempted to identify the source of the incessant tweet.  Once spotted, they were more difficult to photograph.  A sudden movement only signalled their departure.  Trying to get them in focus only to lose them again was frustrating.  They blend in beautifully with their surroundings and almost impossible to see.  Those of you who have tried to photograph tiny silvereye will know the patience and persistence needed to achieve the outcome.

The olive green silvereye found in the West is tiny.  As a species they are known to fly great distances yet weigh just 10 gm.  What they lack in weight, they make up in their uniqueness.  Their expressions are serious, almost comical.  Their feathers, coloration and claws are exquisite.  They have taught me to stop, look and listen while bush walking.  Beauty comes in smaller packages too amid the grandeur of landscape.

On a trip to Esperance earlier in the year, much to my surprise, I found one silvereye singing heartily in the open where the scrub had been destroyed by a bushfire.  Alone, the vulnerability of her exposure did not dampen her early morning spirit.  The song remained the same.

And, so it is with people too.  The song remains the same.

As always,

a dawn bird