Winter had hit Esperance it seemed. It was windy, cold and wet when I arrived. Having caught a throat bug on the flight, I headed straight to the supermarket and bought a sachet of chicken soup (ugh!). Wet cement, would have been more palatable. Why chicken soup? For me, it is synonymous with nurturing. Before I was married I rented a room in a large home that belonged to a Polish widow who spoiled me thoroughly! A mere cough would galvanize her into action. I learnt to make chicken soup from her. Chicken frames, beef bones, root vegetables (carrots, parsnips, turnips), celery including leaves, brown onions with skin, bay leaf and whole peppercorns, all placed in a large pot of cold water and then brought up to the boil. Simmer, skimming the top, for several hours. Strain, season, leave in the fridge, skim any residue fat, add freshly chopped carrots and celery, broken up angel hair pasta and bring to the boil again. You’ve got a delicious, clear broth with vegetables and noodles. The young adults call it “Mum’s witches brew”. I swear by it. It cures everything, for me. I could hardly wait to get home and get the cauldron out.
The three days in Esperance were torturous. I struggled into work for a few hours and then returned to bed, my energy deplete. The boss, concerned at the way I looked, booked me in to see his doctor. Country folks have big hearts! Yes, I was too sick to work but not sick enough to crave being outside with my camera. So it was torture and I was feeling stir crazy. On the day of my return flight, I headed out to Woody Lake, new camera in hand.
I watched dawn break and fretted about the clouds. The small plane would have to punch through these, the thought making me feel sicker than I had been.
As the sun broke through, I saw a line of birds above.
On one side were the Cape Barren Geese, large, ungainly birds on ground, but graceful in flight.
Dozens on ibis, untidy in formation, also headed somewhere else. (I obviously need more practice with my new camera!).
Far across the Lake, on my right, was a flotilla of pelicans, dozens of them. On my left, a solitary white heron, posture perfect, even when alone.
Thinking that was my quota for the day, I started to drive out of the reserve slowly when I saw it, sitting all plumped up, large as a hen, a common bronze wing pigeon.
Preening, pretty as a peacock, in an unguarded moment, challenging the notion of “common”.
Near my car, a silver eye feeding. Usually they swarm in small groups but this one was alone.
Eye to eye. For a moment, it was heaven, right here on earth.
I’ve always found it difficult to explain my faith to my children. I was raised to follow it, not question it. I raised my children differently. I have raised them to question authority. So when they ask questions, I really don’t know the answers, other than having a faith base, works for me.
But I’ve been reflecting on the concept of heaven and hell. What if I was taught incorrectly. What if the message was, this was heaven. If we recognize it as such, it can be. Be it suburbia, city or outdoors. I’ve found it just takes a moment of stillness, a moment of peace to achieve this. A moment I found heals me, no matter what life throws my way.
My belief has shifted somewhat from my early childhood. I now believe, if we practice this awareness, whether you are a believer or not, heaven helps us all.
In a world of unrest, this Sunday, my prayer is one of peace.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
Well, not quite! The noisy wattle bird, now silent, was within reach. Keeping my movements small, I put the sandwich down and picked up my camera.
Emboldened by the quiet, the bird started to feed. They are a joy to watch.
The wattle bird has ordinary plumage, and blends into the scrub with ease. But I look for the distinctive vivid yellow belly, when I find them, nestled deep in foliage.
The wattle bird is fascinating to watch when it feeds, with the delicate red wattles dangling on either side of the head. What is sacrifices in an unattractive metallic cackle call, it makes up in elegance.
When the wattle bird left to feed elsewhere, I found an acacia, the tiny flower, bright as a spotlight. It shone a light on a simple truth.
Not far away from my car, was a Western Grey kangaroo and joey. Aren’t they perfect in the bush!
These looked different to the ones in Esperance.
The eyes, large and luminous.
Was that curiosity or a ‘don’t mess with me’ look? This one was huge, the stance looked threatening.
With another joey, much paler than the other one, they were eight in the mob. They stared at me in silence. Oh! I wished my heart didn’t beat so loud!
When I’m in Esperance, now my second home, I wake early to catch sunrise at the Bay. I’m yet to see a repeat light show, as the one I saw that day.
I then head to Woody Lake where the white faced heron is perfect in silhouette.
In my garden, I breathe deeply. The roses are there to remind me. Life is sweet.
I’m not big on garden ornaments, but I love this one. My son used to sleep this way in infancy. He says it was a reflection of inherited work ethic. Head down, bum up!
This elegant statue I bought in Kalgoorlie. It is placed under the jasmine shrub. She waits for it to bloom. Waiting is good, sometimes.
I bought these rocks to remind me each day how uncomplicated life can be. Why make it anything else?
There would have been a time in my life when I have would turned tail and run, confronted. Not this morning. I felt I had the best company. The yellow throated miner bird sat still and silent. Reflective, like me.
My galleries and museums are now different. I look. Touch. Feel. Sniff. And taste the salt on my lips, and occasionally, cheeks. Yes, the galleries and museums are more interactive. I immerse myself. I don’t want to miss a moment of the experience.
These were embedded in rock. Immovable despite the power of the sea.
The tell tale signs of seagull that raided the turtle’s nest along the shore. What is food to one, is death to another. The cycle of life.
when I drove through a weather cell in the Wheatbelt, frightened out of my wits, the huge road train turned into a road angel that afternoon and illuminated the instant dark. I found silence and calm in a paddock, some 85 kms down the road.
About my work in Moora where I go looking for the butterflies in the garden of my hotel. She looked at the picture and said drily. “It’s just a monarch!” There was a slight thaw around her mouth when I said, “yes, wearing polkas!”
I told her about my work in Bunbury where I found the ocean turns pink at dawn.
And about the bees among the prickly dryandra in Narrogin, that look like a long eared bunny, close up.
About the filigree found in leaves that remind me of the silver jewellery gypsies wear in Rajasthan.
And the single, plain leaf in the sand that caught my eye even when there was so much more to see.
How the honeyeater’s song in the Goldfields helped me discover ….
among the tangles, there’s simple beauty.
How the flowers don’t all burst into bloom at once. Maybe Nature sets a pace to slow us down. Wait and see.
I told her about the seagull with the broken foot that probably landed too hard at Walyalup Rocks, but can still fly.
And about that time when locals in Bunbury asked each other if they saw the sunset the previous night.
The greenest growth is at the point of pruning.
Solitary can be a powerful statement.
I no longer look for permanence. Transience is appealing to me. What ebbs and flows, like the breath of life, is a gift. We see this in tides, sometimes shells, sometimes, a forest of boab trees in the sand. 
I also know a boab tree is strong, and will wait like a friend, withstanding tide and time.
At my leisure I read sea stories of ancient times, carved in stone.
I’ve learned lessons from migratory birds in flight. And, like them, I now travel light.
Cauterised, I now watch the tide soothe ruffled edges, as the pindan cliffs bleed into the sea.
My eyes scan roadside for three eyed monsters. They help reconnect to the child in me.
A red eye, is a ruby.
A ball of ruffled vivid feathers is gorgeous, but …
A single white feather, is peace.
The Willie Wagtail is always great company.
The cape gooseberry bush has one or two lanterns at the moment. I’m not sure if it is the right time for it to fruit. My mother used to make the best gooseberry jam. The taste of fresh fruit is an indelible memory, so I eye it with anticipation.
The last of the autumn roses have found a space to peek through the fence. 
Although autumn is soon claiming them …
there’s still some summer left in leaves.
I’ve come to learn, when there are no roses, leaves and raindrops will do.
And, who knew that plain old snail, lived under a gilded roof.
The tiny Bolivian yellow squirrel monkeys were a delight. 
They clung to each other, surprised by early morning humans.
Oh! look at those fingers!
Another, poised, before jump.
In a noisy household, I was regarded as “a good child”. I never got in the way. I’m not quite sure how I managed that because I was curious about everything.
My children have taught me, they may have been raised with identical values, but they are individuals. Each with their own strengths and struggles. My role is to be aware of this and be the level playing field for them. I cannot attribute this thinking to my professional training. Nor can I give credit to how I was raised by my parents. I have become this kind of parent because I take time every day to visit that inner space, the sanctuary, where I am me.
I’ve found when dazzled by anything en masse
It is worth the time to stop and look closer. 
That scrub with white prongs in the distance, has its own delight.
I found these ‘roses’ …
bloom in the harshest environment.
Although I avoid orange drinks, sometimes it is worth to stop and gulp.
An enamel orchid will continue to shine, under the overhang.
At dawn the ‘bin chicken’ is equally beautiful with sea as backdrop
as it is stepping out of a pond at sunset.
Stone hearts may be invisible in people, until you rub them up the wrong way. The visible ones, left by Nature, are always beautiful because of their vulnerability. (I photographed this exactly as I found it).
Driving through the Midwest, I realised, why settle for a bunch of flowers when I can have a paddock. 
I’m always amazed to find pink in tough, mining towns. On reflection, given the volatility of the industry and profession, perhaps it is Nature’s way to symbolize hope. 
Every time I return from a trip, a neglected garden reminds me, it will continue to bloom, with or without my presence. A helpful reminder for ego, so I take notes.
There are no words to describe finding one’s first enamel orchid along a bush track but I’ll try. They look shiny and plastic. The crick in the neck from the double take was worth it! They are breathtakingly beautiful.
Likewise discovering that shaggy bush in Esperance, turns into a gorgeous waterfall acacia came as a surprise like no other one spring.
If one summons enough courage to visit Lesueur National Park early mornings, when there is no one else there but Nature, the drawcard is easy to see.
I found ‘kebabs’ of flowers there, too, so the gnawing hunger pangs make me return again and again.
Pom poms along bush tracks brings out the inner cheerleader, I never knew resided in me.
There’s infinite joy when a small bird allows you to keep it company.
In a still moment, unadorned simplicity, is where Nature does it best.
There’s a certain beauty to waiting before bloom. (I wish I knew this in my youth).
Rice crackers are found on the beach, if you look for them hungrily.
The sand dunes are not an obstruction between me and the ocean.
They are made from tiny shells and quartz. Each piece infinitesimal and exquisite.
A pesky weed is beautiful too.
A snail will climb steadily until it reaches the tree top. It’s all about pace!
Any cut, words or blade, can leave ragged edges.
I’ve found youth (mine!) and wisdom (my children’s!) can co-exist on the same branch of a tree!
Sometimes, you just have to stand still and allow the storm to pass, and it will, if your roots are strong.
I’ve learned the solitary fisherman on the rocks who wets the line at dawn, has done this many times before. He does it for the pleasure, not because he expects a bite.
Likewise the surfer, as he strides out board under arm, to the open sea.
There he’ll sit, with like minded folk, waiting for that set to arrive.
And when it does, he’ll take me with him on that magic carpet ride. 
I found some mornings when the sea is muted, wild dolphins will weave their way through the calm and leave my knees weak with sheer delight of it all.
I’ve found in small mining towns, when there’s not a soul to be seen at midday, even a kangaroo can stop by and crack open a can, to chill with you.
And, if you don’t drink. You can still see double.
In winter, when all else has faded away, a fig is vivid with colour.
A beach is a beach. It does not need a me and a you, to tell a story of romance.
I don’t need to travel to Mallee country. There are times when the ringneck will visit me to check out how I live.
No longer a lead foot. I slow down and enjoy the curves that life throws up at me now and then. I’ve learned those are moments, to see past the obstruction and see the forest, as it is meant to be.
Yes, I found patience. It was always at my feet, in the Here and Now.
A Shared Space 
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