Last year I met a friend at a conference. I hadn’t seen her for some years. We both do similar work. We always make plans to meet. Frustratingly our paths never cross when we are visiting the same town but we keep in touch frequently. Much younger than me and someone who makes time to go to the gym, she had a massive heart attack earlier this year. With a pacemaker, she has a new lease on life but it has thrown a curved ball on her lifestyle. It was a wake up call, for her and me.
I’ve become used to what my children refer to as my “gypsy” lifestyle. I’ve learned to cope by using some strategies that I find work for me. I am never rushed for the airport. In every town I request the same room at the hotel, so it is familiar. When I’m given a serviced apartment, I always do the dishes. It grounds me. My packing is neatly organised in travel packs. There’s less chance I’ll lose something this way. Travel is not a stressor for me. It comes from a certain philosophy.
Those in the fast lane, for example, jockeys, marathon runners, even sprinters, etc respond to a different rhythm. They call it pace. They become attuned to it. They have to, if they want to win. They know you can’t go too fast, too early. Nor leave the last dash, too late. Yes, they know the rhythm. It comes from practice and the desire to win.
I’m home for nearly a week over the Easter break before travel starts again in earnest. Shifting gears is now easier. I create a different pace when I’m home. I savour every moment. I still wake early. There’s no such thing as sleeping in, for me. I wake and wait, coffee in hand, for dawn. It always arrives in style. I make time to wander in the garden. 
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.
I know these things now because I make time to learn them in those still moments. The concept of frantic is no longer part of my vocabulary or lifestyle. Yes, like the jockeys and marathon runners, it took practice to get here. And, I did.
My children, too, are learning this philosophy. They make sure they spend quality time with their partners and also value their alone time, too. They know life is not all about money. Success is doing what you love to do.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
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.
With thousands of photographs to catalogue, I don’t know the names of the wildflowers I photograph. Do I really need to? They say what they need to say.
I’ve found a pink banksia cone in a national park in Jurien Bay. They usually range in shades of gold and orange, so a pink one, is sheer delight.
I’m not sure of this plant either that sprouted long prongs of flowers, but I feel I’ve looked right into the heart and found nothing but smaller things that made it bigger.
And, the wild spider orchid, Mardi Gras flamboyant in bloom, always finds a place to perform, in a dense forest.
Much like the kangaroo paw, still, poised in mid-bloom.
Then there are purple flowers, with trails of happy tears, after the rain.
There are others, who make me peer even closer to look at the tinier bloom, within bloom.
There are plain, pristine pure white blooms, like angels that brighten gloom.
Pom poms with individual exquisite flowers, the detail within them, beyond description.
And trigger plants that swing in the breeze, like joyful children, in a playground.
I was in the outback, far north, staying at a cattle station just before the mustering began.
Standing by the corral at dawn, I didn’t notice him while he worked, so entranced was I, by it all. 
But when he stood patiently waiting for toast to turn brown, sipping billy tea from a tin mug, “g’day” escaping from the corner of his mouth, he caught my eye. 
He had an aura. It was how he worked the horses, that made him unique.
He sat down slowly, as if in pain, guitar cradled in his lap, a beer clenched in a calloused fist. His feet were bare, untouched by the sun they glowed infant pink. His arms were also bare, nut brown and muscled from reining in, a black bandana around his head, adding colour. He took a thirsty swig, leaned over and placed the bottle on the grass in the space that separated us.
He travels the world, searching for the horse that no one can ride. For him, life and love, is that simple.
The morning was tinted in muted colours. The beach, nearly empty.
When the jogger was out of sight, the seagull kept me company
I stepped off the jetty to watch the dolphins play. They enjoyed the limelight.
As if it noticed me, one flipped on it’s back and swam a length, to show off the latest party trick.
The tide was leaving. The sun arrived.
I started to see things that first startled me … a mouse?!
I relaxed. Angel wings, or perhaps a butterfly.
I realised, the pristine sand was just shells, waiting for time, like me.
There was plenty to distract me, like the honeyeater in the scrub.
The cormorant on the pontoon, in the early morning sun.
The pied oystercatcher, with mate.
As the day ended, lovers, like lovers often do, stopped to watch a setting sun slide into the sea.
Like I said in the previous post, yes I’ve travelled the world, but every morning I wake in awe, to find it at my feet.
She saw colours more vibrant
than any painting in a gallery.
And when colours were muted
she found, they still told a story.
She searched for the Cape Barren Geese, at every trip to Esperance and found the giant bird, doing the impossible. Looking elegant.
Her eyes held a joey’s gaze while it snuggled deep within the mother’s pouch. It was something she only read about.
She walked with waders until they found the perfect palette for her to capture the moment.
She delighted in the ice cream pink wave of flowers, she found one day, in spring.
I found them in my garden.
Viola! in the strawberry, waiting to fruit.
Among bush tracks.
Against a fence.
In the neighbour’s garden.
In the eyes of the magpie lark, as it picked through the remnants of my breakfast.
In the eyes of a sick dog, who knows she is loved.
In my eyes, when I found the heart I left behind.
And, when I walked among the ‘sea clouds’.
I found my very own Milky Way.
So I took it home, and like a child at Halloween, emptied my pockets of loot.
The rocks covered with barnacles.
And there are sea creatures, just as encrusted.
I always visit this slab of rock. It is jewel like with barnacles.
So enthralled by it for several visits, I failed to see one just beyond, and closer to the sea.
There is life in tiny crevices. The ibis knows this.
So does the heron that walks with intent. While the seagull photo bombs, also with intent.
Above the roar of waves, I can hear the crunch of footsteps on a shell encrusted beach.
And, amid the noise and beach clutter, the tiny sand plover takes a moment to stand still.
They are almost always in a flock or at least a pair or two. I’ve watched them for hours and have never observed conflict. They seem to know, there is plenty of food for all.
They go about their life, without a backward glance at raptors. They live mindfully, in the here and now.
They are curious about the new.
Stop long enough to look at the world around them.
They are relaxed, and focused, when they observe.
And, yes, these energetic, beautiful little birds do take time to rest.
A Shared Space 
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