After a very hot weekend we are expecting a winter storm. What’s up with this weather!
I woke this morning to absolute stillness and silence. I took a hot drink to the sofa and gazed across the patio. In the past few days I’ve noticed a tiny Willy Wagtail. Still a chick it is mostly silent. I watched it yesterday struggle to fly up to the fence, and once it gained momentum, over it. I wondered if it landed in the swimming pool next door!
This morning, an hour went by before I heard a tiny chirp. It was Willie the Brave! 
I stood at the window and there it was. Flitting around under the patio. It feeds off the insects in the cobwebs, and flies around with ‘crumbs’ stuck to his face. I watched it practice fantail, unsuccessfully, and smiled like a parent while gazing at it with affection.
This morning I went outdoors with my camera. I hoped my presence would not scare him off. It didn’t. We shared the same space for a few moments.
This tiny bird shared a moment with me this morning. A tiny one but big in generosity. This little creature with no other agenda, no angle, just curiosity. Much like me.
This is one of the simple joys I’ve enjoyed while being home most of this month. I have a few more days at home before my gruelling schedule resumes. My job mostly entails giving parents bad news. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea for a profession. I know the toll this takes on me. So I seek other ways to soothe my spirit. And I’ve learned, it’s moments like I experienced this morning, that uplift me.
When one realises life is finite, the value of it grows with each passing day. So I’ve learned to find joy in the mundane which is best said by Anais Nin:
A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked.
May you find joy in whatever path you choose to walk today.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
I find it fascinating that most birds pair for life. How do they choose a life partner? Do they ever make mistakes? How do they work out differences? Do they ever fall out of love? Do they ever yearn for the way it used to be? How do they cope when their partner is no more? So many questions. I have no answers.
With the birds I observe, the males like the fairy blue wren are gorgeous whereas the female is less vivid. Male birds work hard to get the female”s interest. I once watched a bower bird diligently collect green objects (including an unattended key ring) for his potential love. In the bird world, it’s Girl Power! all the way, it would seem.
The pink galahs make me laugh! It would appear, when it comes to love, no different than you and me.
I went through a phase after my divorce thinking it would be nice to be in a relationship. I hadn’t factored in, life had changed me. My standards and priorities were different. I was stronger. (Yes, Girl Power!). Financially secure with adult children, was an attraction for some men, but they did not meet my criteria: a man of integrity and social conscience. I asked for nothing more. You’d think I was asking for the world, but I know a man of that calibre would mean the world to me.
This evening the word prompt jogged my memory of a beautiful poem that encapsulated everything I felt in those days of search, so I’ll share it with you.
The Invitation
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
by Oriah Mountain Dreamer (@ http://www.oriahmountaindreamer.com)
I love this poem. It speaks of a journey and many other journeys, some taken, some yet to be taken, some to be taken individually, others jointly. It speaks of togetherness, of oneness of self, and with another. I love the inherent spiritual nature of relationship in this poem.
So where am I today? I no longer look. I found oneness and togetherness in Nature. I am in a happy place. The danger, I’m told, is “this is when it happens”!
How contrary is life?
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
Born at dawn, I wake at dawn each day. When I’m not home the last thing I do before I go to bed is check the time for first light and sunrise. I then set my clock to five minutes before. I can’t think of one reason why I should stay in bed, when this is outside my hotel room in Esperance.
At home one of my pet peeves is turning on the light when it is still dark in the home. I love the quiet moment of ambivalence of darkness before light. I sit and enjoy my coffee while the shadows take shape. As I sipped my coffee I inhaled the unmistakable breathtaking perfume of jasmine. To my left, just beyond the patio, I caught a glimpse of white. The light scatter of petals will be a dense carpet soon.
As I walked around a garden, cooled by the sprinklers overnight, my eyes were drawn to new growth. My heart space has taught me, the freshest growth is where the plant is pruned the harshest. A take away message today for me.
Nature has taught me to seek an ebullient moment, at least once each day. If you’ve ever watched birds early morning, you’ll know where the teaching came from.
I often photograph surfers early morning in Esperance. Surfers walk into the water to be one with it, whereas I, a non-swimmer, stand away from the roiling waves in awe. The draw to the sea, the fear and fascination, that pull from one to the other is inexplicable. Much like a surfer, I surrender to joy of seduction, when I’m in that moment of play.
May you too wake seeking a moment like this, each day.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
The tide arrived at night
It swirled around my head
It found the vault, where memories are kept
As the tide reached that sacrosanct shore
Bringing storms, spinning truth, distorting reality
What was once mine, was no longer mine to keep
So I opened the vault, and threw away the key
Swept off my feet, the tide carried me last night
Leaving only sea prints in the sand
I woke this morning, free, adrift, whole
the sea, my healer, found a tide
that brought me home, to love again.
a dawn bird
January was to be a quiet month of settling into my home. But eight days down I have already made my first trip, this time to Geraldton, in the Midwest and have more visits to come. I had also planned to complete all reports pending from last year and ploughing my way through the mountain. I’ve been less productive than I hoped I would be. Perhaps, this is just the aftermath of holidays or the heat that’s slowing me down. As I lumber on, I thought I’d stop and reflect on the rewards that await me should I stay on task.
The feel of walking bare feet on sea debris.
Seeing my touchstone again on Cable Beach, before it is permanently part of the sea. (I’ve written about this rock platform in a previous post, titled Narratives).
Experiencing a moment when a tiny Lesser Sand Plover, stands like a mountain before me.
Standing below a red collared lorikeet in Kununurra wondering how did it get that shaggy look!
Looking into the glassy eyes of the Inland Thornbill.
Experiencing the delight at finding a button quail on the front lawn of a hotel, so tiny, I thought it was a mouse. The mother quail stayed a fraction longer, so I could take a picture of her beautiful feathered herringbone cloak.
Spending time with kingfishers, silent in trees above me.
And in the Midwest, where the only clouds are between wheat fields and sky.
Waking to find the colours of sunset at my doorstep, at dawn.
Spending time at the beach where I am 20 feet taller
and knowing my heart is whole again.
These joys await in the not too distant future, I know for sure. But for now, like the tiny Lesser Sand Plover I’ll ignore the waves of work and focus on just what’s before me. Work.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
No matter where I am, almost always, the first bird I see is the Willy Wagtail. It is a constant, a reassurance of the familiar. It is always good company. They are fearless on approach, intent on the insects that are dispersed when one walks. I’ve nearly stepped on one during a bush walk.
Being away from home frequently, I make every effort to create the feeling of ‘home’ everywhere I go. One year it seemed ironic, when I was home, I was not.
I went to the back yard, and with the Willy Wagtail for company, I wandered around as I always do, checking on this and that. 
This time the bird stayed on the twig, aloof.
The gaze, intent.
Ever watchful.
Within a week the behaviour changed. The bird became territorial.
Every time I went to the laundry line or patio. It would watch me from a distance.
It would display the tail, the distinctive fantail and chirp excitedly.
It found a high spot, a natural arbour made by the branches of the mulberry tree.
One day it pulled itself up to look bigger and then swooped me.
Once the bird swooped me, my backyard was no longer mine. I had crossed an invisible line. I was a target, moving or not. If I dared to stand by the sliding door or even window, it would fly up against the glass. The message was clear. Stay away!
One morning, unable to go outdoors, I aimed the camera at the mulberry tree. That’s when I saw the nest the Willy Wagtail had been defending. I respected the need for protection and never got to photograph the chick/s. I did find an empty eggshell one day under the mulberry tree and was happy with that.
Homecoming is about rejoicing the return. Yesterday I watched a pair of Willy Wagtails in the backyard, playful and cheeky. Courtship, perhaps. I watched them with growing amusement, and knew sometime in the future, my home will no longer be mine. I’m okay with that.
I reflected on the word home what it means and represents and realised the most comfortable home, is the one I’ve created in self.
I’ve practiced mindfulness for some years now. It used to take a great deal of effort when life separated me from self. Now it is effortless. It takes but a few minutes each day, like it did to compose this post, and when I do, like the birds, the homecoming is a celebration. So why not celebrate every day?
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
I’m in the throes of planning my new garden. It’s an exciting time. Today’s prompt took me back to my previous home that had a back garden in two levels. The upper level had a hedge of 14 white ice berg roses that bloomed incessantly. I planted white flowers in flower beds and pots too. It was magical. It looked like it snowed in summer.
I love white linen tops (last count, 17). I’ll say no more!
So out of my wardrobe and into Nature …
I wanted to visit Shell Beach up in Shark Bay some day. I was there to see white shells. I did. Trillions of them.
I love photographing seagulls, perhaps because of my love for the book ‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull’. They remind me, I was given wings of freedom. So I chart my own course and fly.
I also love the white wave that brings a poised surfer to shore.
The white sundew in spring.
A beautiful pest, the arum lily, blooms in the hundreds, roadside in Busselton in the south west.
The exquisite white boab flower that blooms up in the Kimberley.
The snowdrops that bloom at my front door, around the anniversary of my father’s passing.
Then there are the roses in my garden. Some pure white.
Others, tinged with pink.
And then there are those that appear against the white picket fence. They are the first thing I see when I return from trips. They say “Welcome home”.
Hope where ever you are, there’s some white magic in your life.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
Responding to Tracy’s invitation on Purple Swamphen … here’s my contribution.
It is a rare visit to Big Swamp, Bunbury when I don’t come across one or more purple swamphen. 
Poised on the grassy bank.
Or feeding
The blues shimmer into indigo and purple when they move.
They are usually shy but also protective. Their warning call is a fearsome screech.
This was a rare sighting of a chick this spring.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
Much like cyberspace, early morning in Big Swamp is noisy. It is filled with tweets and squawks.
During my recent trip I found the air was filled with the high pitched squeaks of honeyeaters, the melodic songs of the Willy Wagtails, and the pained cry of the swamp hens as I approached. The musk duck was being chased by another, the paddle speed of webbed feet on water, fast and furious.
I slowed my pace as I approached the boardwalk. It is the intention, that slowing down of body and mind, that brings me here each time.
I know the Welcome Swallows love sitting on the rails, facing the sun. Sometimes they get used to my presence and accommodate my curiosity. I’ve learned to extend the lens only when they look away, as movement is always a signal for flight.
To my surprise I found some Swallows on the ground near my feet. 
Fear set aside, they were busy with nest building, focused on task.
A slight movement from the corner of my eye caught my attention, a fairy blue wren darting and hopping among the foliage. No matter how many times I see them, the flash of blue always makes my heart skip a beat. 
The male wren stood still for a moment. So perfect. It looked like an enamelled ornament, with blues upon blues found in sky and sea.
In contrast, the female’s beauty, is subtle. Perhaps this is nature’s intention.
While the male distracts she tends to her family, almost invisible, among debris.
Distraction is a powerful tool. These tiny little creatures know this instinctively. They use it for survival.
People in power know this too.
As I read today’s news headlines, I wonder …
Do we?
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
She comes to the door of the B&B, her smile is 100 watt dazzle. Slumped over the walking frame, she looks a couple of generations older, but I’m sure she’s not. Her home is period. She tells me it was cut and transported piece by piece from Kalgoorlie where it was a boarding house. It is endlessly large with high ceilings. She has beautiful taste. She bought the home for a pittance and renovated it faithful to the period. Everything in the home was bought for next to nothing. Huge jarrah posts discarded by a farmer for $8 a piece, she tells me, laughter making her eyes shine. We both know the posts would cost hundreds of dollars in the city. Stained glass windows discarded by someone else exchanged or bartered, one is always lucky to find them, we know this too. She has polished, painted and brushed it all back to life from another century. She has grand plans for so much more and not allowed pain or limited mobility to dampen her enthusiasm.
My bedroom is blue and white. The bed, one of the most comfortable I’ve had in a long time. I was too exhausted to eat, so I lay down in the white warmth and slept fitfully only to wake early evening to water running. I follow the sound outdoors.
Her garden is a delight. I stop to take a picture here and there.
The ornamental almond tree was frosted white.
The ornamental peach tree bloomed elsewhere.
There were bulbs bejewelled with bees.
I found this in one corner, my camera sees what she hasn’t in a long time. “How on earth did that bloom there?”, she asks me, and we both laugh at her surprise. 
I loved the white flowers in another corner and asked her what they were. She tells me, they are English May, a cutting from her grandmother’s garden. It’s something she cherishes. Not hard to see why.
She is seated on a plastic chair, crutches to the side, water hose in hand dousing dirt in front of her with about 15 silver eye keeping her company. They dig into the damp soil for tasty morsels. She giggles like a little girl at their antics.
I step away into the background, camera in hand and reflect.
If this is old age ….
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
I’m no gardener, but I’m forever thinking about my garden. I now live in a house where I have planned different types of gardens in small isolated pockets. My vision is yet to come to fruition, but thinking about this, is a happy place to be.
When I was married my husband and I were constantly at odds with how the garden should look. Forward thinking for the time, he was insistent on a garden with native trees and shrubs as they are plants that require little maintenance and water. I, on the other hand, wanted an English garden with lavender, roses, geraniums, hydrangeas, and cottage plants. He indulged my love for this to a point. When my marriage ended I had a hedge of 14 white iceberg roses that bloomed incessantly with thousands of flowers. Far from being a reminder of him, they served to remind me he had worked hard outdoors so I could enjoy the view. It was a memory worth keeping so I continued to keep it alive with more flowers. The only time I can remember gardening, is when I decided to turn the upper level into a white garden and that space had only white flowers of all kinds. I wish I had taken pictures. It was beautiful. I looked forward to my alone times in the white garden. I shed all my other roles when I was here except one, student. On reflection, it was a space where I gave my body breath each day and where I created a new life.
I moved from that space, in more ways than one and found a world of colour. I was fortunate to find this in a lifestyle that meets all my needs. Each day I work towards that life, one that strengthens the core of me. I make sure I stop each day for a few minutes. I now see colour and detail. 
Yellow everlasting flowers growing roadside in the Wheatbelt.
or growing side by side with blue leschenaultia in dry, gravel soil.
The beautiful velvety native purple flowers on grey foliage that look extremely ordinary from a distance. But close up? You be the judge.
These interesting flowers are tiny and waxy. I’ve seen creamy lemon ones in the Goldfields. They glisten in the sun like dew. Up close, they are delicate and finely veined, like aged hands. I’ve seen hundreds and thousands of these, but this time, I saw one in bloom. Exquisite.
Then there are the tiny everlastings that glow like embers, along the ground.
The beautiful spears of grevillea that grow wild everywhere.
Or these mops of orange.
and blue.
The delicate intricacy of the cone flower.
And tiny, tiny, butter yellow blooms.
I still find white flowers joyful.
They remind me how far I’ve come.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
My presence at Big Swamp in Bunbury is usually announced to the wildlife by the screeching warnings of the swamp hens. This visit I did not see or hear any.
I was enjoying the quiet when I heard the distinctive noise made by the musk duck. To me it sounds like a coin dropping in water from a height. Kerplonk! The ‘whistle’ is intermittent as the duck moves over the water but on this occasion, it had a frequency I had not heard before, so I walked faster towards the water.
I’ve found the musk duck ignores my presence whether I’m standing by the water’s edge or on the boardwalk. It goes about its business. As it did this time.
At first the mother duck swam serenely past him with ducklings in tow.
He watched them glide by and drew attention, the sound a mere burble that made ripples around him, saying “I’m here”.
She ignored him. Then his body language changed as he exposed more and more of his chin lobe and moved faster, with a speed that took me by surprise.
He followed the female duck drawing closer, becoming increasingly relentless in his pursuit.
I thought the ducklings looked afraid as they moved towards their mother. She stopped and studied the moment.
Then she intervened, putting herself between the male and her ducklings. She engaged in a dance with him this way as they glided past me, in a back and forth.
He chased her repeatedly, the ripples around him becoming wider.
She ignored him. He arched his body into a bow, chin lobe prominent and brush tail stiffened in a final still moment.
Then he exploded. The water erupted around him. In one desperate moment, he put on his best show. She did what ducks do best. With ducklings in tow, she paddled on, unimpressed.
I nearly clapped bravo. But, I couldn’t tell you for whom, because I don’t really know.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
When living in Canada, my favourite time of year was autumn. I loved the changing colours of the leaves and what drifted away from the parent tree in the fall. The smell of burning leaves as chill took over the air is an evocative memory that lingers, as does the shiver as one tried to dig deeper into warmth.
When the Northern Hemisphere prepares for autumn, we in the Southern Hemisphere, look forward to spring.
When new life begins.
And young ones are nurtured.
When one finds colour erupting in unexpected places.
And even succulents on beach sand bloom in the warmth.
A time when the mulla mulla appear in their hundreds of thousands across the arid mining country, with mauve spears tipped in pink.
Or one finds a florist shop, roadside on an empty highway, that gave me pause to think.
Unlike nature, what grows unchecked, is not always beautiful.
This, to me, is an unsettling thought.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
This is Shell Beach in Western Australia. Given my love for beach combing, I was anticipating paradise. It was.
The beach is 60km long and the coquina shells are about 10m deep. One needs sunglasses here! It is sheer brilliance.
The sea did not look too far away, but it was a deceptively long walk. 
Interestingly, the wind has furrowed long gullies, so one disappears from sight while walking towards the ocean, dipping and surfacing, like a fun ride.
Trillions of shells as far as the eye can see.
And shells within shells.
We reached the water finally. The colours of blue, beautiful.
The sea shimmered like plastic wrap.
On one ridge, I found spring in a bed of shells.
Another item off my bucket list. Well, maybe not off my list completely. I’m going to visit again. The serenity of this beach, was amazing.
Until next time
As always
a dawn bird
A Shared Space 
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