Tag: ragtag daily prompt

The Chef’s granddaughter

My grandfather wrote the recipe book, The Chef.  I’ve written about this in another post.  I’m sure from him that I love to cook.

I find cooking relaxing.  Being in the kitchen is never a chore for me.  Chopping, dicing, slicing, stirring, tasting, all wonderful sensory experiences.  Nothing pleases me more than cooking up a feast and watching people enjoying their meal.

I have a library of recipe books.   My favourite and most frequently used ones are by Donna Hay, and some very old Women’s Weekly recipes, yes, a few over 30 years old.  I love cooking Italian influenced meals, for their vibrancy and flavours, so naturally I got Jamie Oliver’s latest book for Christmas as a gift.  I enjoy cooking his recipes too for the simplicity.  I have a few Nigella Lawson’s books but I dislike watching the contrived approach to cooking so much, I bake or cook from her books only occasionally.  My son, a teen at the time, finding me always in the kitchen, once told me I was the Nigella in the family “without the porn”!  I recently discovered Yotam Ottolenghi’s recipes and love his approach too.  Yes, I am a hoarder of recipes.  If I lived another dozen lives, I still would not have gone through them all.  IMG_2956.jpgI even collect recipes when I’m in a plane!

One of the hardest challenges for me being on the road so much is that I miss cooking my own meals and when home, there’s hardly enough time.  The upside, of course is, I do get to enjoy some lovely meals while travelling and will share a few with you that I’ve enjoyed around the State.  thumb_IMG_3871_1024.jpgPoached egg with salmon on potato rosti with Hollandaise sauce and caper berry.  Best breakfast ever enjoyed at The Pumphouse, Kununurra, far north of Perth.  It is my favourite restaurant in this region that sits on the site of the old Ord Pump Station on the Ord River.  The dinner with a magnificent sunset, is pretty amazing too and I’ve shared pictures of this in another post.thumb_IMG_1029_1024.jpgThe most memorable breakfast I’ve ever eaten was by the banks of the King River, after sleeping under stars in outback Kimberley.  Bread toasted over an open fire, the smell of eggs and bacon frying and a side of freshly caught barramundi with nothing but salt and pepper to season it.  It set the bar high.thumb_IMG_1616_1024.jpgA far cry from eating out is the paleo inspired breakfast I cook for the family on a Sunday with a glass of freshly squeezed apple, celery, lime and ginger juice.thumb_IMG_0831_1024.jpgOr for lunch, one of the family’s favourite curries is a recipe from Donna Hay (Lemon Lime Coconut Chicken).   A Thai inspired curry that is absolutely delicious and takes barely 15 minutes to make.  thumb_IMG_0808_1024.jpgMy children have never been to India so when they were younger whatever I cooked up and presented as Indian food, got me by.  They were my biggest fans, my version of a biryani being a favourite.  (It’s not really a biryani, more of a pilaf!).  I’m not good at cooking Indian food.  I know this.  I know the taste and what it should be.  I never seem to get it right.  Now that Perth has a proliferation of Indian restaurants serving more authentic food, I’ve noticed my children prefer to eat out when I offer to cook Indian!  Hmmmm

I recently stayed at a B&B in Collie, a lovely property owned by an elderly couple.  Being out of town on an evening when the weather was atrocious, she offered to cook me dinner.  I sat alone downstairs enjoying this delicious meal that was set out all fancy with real silver cutlery, linen napkins and all.  I think I paid $20 for this.  The apple pie with the crusty coconut, demerara sugar and vanilla topping was sublime.  A far cry from a hasty grab of something from a petrol station bain marie in the Wheatbelt.  So naturally, I took a picture to send my son.  “Enjoying dinner”, I texted him.  The fancy setting did not escape his eye.  He responded, “Dinner date with Dracula?”

As I said before I love cooking Italian.  I love the vibrancy and taste of various regions.  I enjoyed watching the show when it was on TV and cooking the late Antonio Carluccio’s recipes.  And more recently I’ve developed a love for Silvia Collaca’s recipes and show.  My Italian cooking leaves a lot to be desired.  I tend never to stick to a recipe but that’s the joy of cooking for me.  A recipe is just a place to start and the deviations are fun.thumb_IMG_1443_1024.jpgItalian sausages cooked with capcicums, chillies and dressed with olive oil and balsamic vinegar with crusty bread is a quick and delicious meal to take to a pot luck dinner with friends.thumb_IMG_0961_1024.jpgMy go to comfort food is an Indian beef stew with vegetables and pasta, a recipe that evokes childhood, with nothing else to season it but salt, peppercorns, bay leaf, cinnamon and cardamon, slow cooked, of course.  I’m not sure where the recipe came from but I recall our cook making this.  I used to yearn for it and one day, closed my eyes and evoked the memory of it.  Without a written recipe, and with the cook and my mother long passed, I knew exactly what went into the stew and it is as authentic as it came from the kitchen in my family home.thumb_IMG_0177_1024.jpgThen there’s the best time of year.  Christmas.  Where all my dreams come true.  I love to experiment.  This was a little shot of peppermint candy cane milkshake I made a couple of years ago.thumb_IMG_1302_1024.jpgBut I’m not as creative as others in making up recipes, like this one I found in 2016 somewhere along my travels!

All this food is making me hungry, but it’s just green tea today for me.  Oh why! did the word prompt come up with this on a detox weekend!

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chore or choice

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I recall many years ago attending a weekend health retreat at a place that was primarily for cancer patients and their family.  The retreat would open to the general public once a year and I jumped at the opportunity to go there.  We were warned there would be no caffeine, sugar or salt in the meals.  My knees buckled at the thought but it was just a weekend, I would survive, I told myself.  The weekend changed my diet for months.  I could not eat fast foods (too salty), caffeine gave me an unpleasant buzz and sugar made me feel ill.

Last year my goal was to be a mindful consumer of food.  I wondered if the label had a paragraph of ingredients, was it really healthy to consume on a regular basis?  This led to mindful shopping.  I do love zoning out in a supermarket but have found I need bare essentials only.  I take out the recycle bin every 4-6 weeks.  I’m not consuming that much!

Having made major adjustments to daily living, I’ve set a personal goal this year.  It is an undeniable truth I lead a stressful life.  Making sure I spend some time in mindful moments comes easily to me now.  I am healthy on a psychological level but I have neglected my physical health.  So this year I’m going to be kind and nurturing to my body.

To achieve this goal I had to think what that actually means.  With competing priorities, this part was the hardest and quite confronting.  It required me to do what does not come naturally to me.  I had to give myself a higher priority.  So I thought I’d start like I did on the health retreat and try this over a weekend.

I seem to have chosen the hottest weekend to detox and nurture myself.  In some ways, a blessing in disguise.   Lots of fluid is the order of the day.

It has taken a lot of planning to get to this point.  With a fridge that is often bare was a good place to start.  I could choose what I needed.  It has taken away the stress of choice of what I should not be consuming over the next two days.

This morning I made a jug of green tea, and added lime, orange and grapefruit and a handful of crushed mint leaves, and filled it with ice.  Delicious!  It will be gone before lunch.

Late last night I made a pot of clear vegetable soup.  I could have easily used kitchen appliances to slice and dice vegetables.  But I enjoyed the manual task.  It seemed to be a nurturing gesture.  Despite being a warm morning, my body craved the soup instead of coffee.  I knew the soup was full of nutrition.

Making changes comes down to perception.  It is a chore or is it a choice.  Choice is more self-directed, and a powerful motivator.  A chore is generally imposed by someone else or circumstances.  Having made this distinction, I can’t wait for the next weekend!

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

 

Three generations

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When I had a daughter I realised, to raise her, I needed to know myself.  To know myself I needed to know my mother.  And to know her was to, if not know, but understand her mother.  By peeling away the layers, I am in the present.

My grandmother Elizabeth, known as Bess, was 30 years younger than my grandfather.  A teenager when she married him, a widower with a small son.  My grandparents went on to have nine children and raised ten, the first always considered one of theirs.  We, the next generation, became aware of this history only in our teens.  It enthralled me.

I never knew Bess.  She died long before I was born but her memory lives in pictures and oral history.  She had a beautiful smile that captivated my grandfather, and a wonderful laugh that echoes in my daughter.  I’m told this but can’t be sure of it, Bess is always unsmiling in family photographs.  From the heart of old Goa, Bess spoke one language, Portuguese, in a lilting voice.  Family always recalled her “haughtiness” but, more than likely, she couldn’t communicate in the language of the region once she moved north.  She had her own tonga, a single horse drawn carriage, the transport of the time before cars.  She rode in it to church every day, a distance of less than a kilometre.  After Mass she arrived at the gates of the sprawling ancestral home.  To her own congregation at the gate, she dispensed a few coins, before she retired into the cavernous house.  Alone, a mother of many.  She died young following complications after the amputation of her leg from diabetes.

My grandfather had extensive business interests in mining and property.  With her husband away a lot, Bess was wealthy and bored.  She was a modern woman of her time.  Loneliness her company, she indulged in what she thought were the finer things in life.  My mother in a moment of indiscretion disclosed why her oldest sister never married and became the surrogate mother to them all.  With an army of home help for an infantry of children, my mother never knew a mother’s touch.  Among the gaggle of children, my mother tried to be “the good child”, hoping this strategy would be rewarded.  By all accounts, it didn’t.

My mother’s journey was similar in some ways to Bess.  My father was 12 years older than her, a gap considered too wide in her day.  My father adored her.  Fortune smiled at them later in life, so he indulged her every whim.  And, my mother found what she had been searching for in him.  We had an army of home help.  So I never knew a mother’s touch.  Unlike my mother, in a sibship of three, I was the infantry of one.  I rebelled every step of the way.  Fiercely independent and determined to shun the values of my heritage, I vowed on a daily basis, I would leave the home to travel the world.  A view that made my father chuckle and my mother collapse in a heap.  These are the memories of me when I was about six.  As the years went on, I misstepped into and out of my birth culture with regularity, and admittedly, sometimes got lost.  I defended my right to these stumbles by insisting, this was my life after all.

I did not escape the family cookie cutter when making a life choice.  Despite protests from my extended family, I married a man much older than myself.  The only difference, I was committed to breaking away from tradition.  I was never going to be like my mother.  But like many others, I found there is no compass to navigate being a parent.  Just history.  And, if not mindful, most likely to repeat itself.

Fast forward to the present.  I meet with my adult children on a regular basis.  We talk.  We laugh.  We share a life of family.  We are on the other side.  I respect my children for the young adults they have become.  It wasn’t always like this.

My daughter is like the young me.  Feisty and flinty when challenged, in her teen years, sharp edges would ignite a blaze.  Like me in my youth, the fire did not keep the home warm.  I had tried to rein my daughter in.  The other day my son reflected softly, “Big mistake!”

Bess had five daughters, three of whom had daughters, too.  Those five granddaughters went on to have daughters.  Of those four great granddaughters, Elizabeth is a memory in name.

And so the cycle began …

Generations

Unfurled from tangled roots

Life, a demarcation zone

The nebulous line of separation

drawn by heart-eye alone

in that no man’s land

all is forgiven

the writing on the wall fades

the toxic ground is pristine

the slate cleaned,

history rewritten

well, not quite …

a dawn bird

The Mona Lisa smile

Today is the anniversary of my mother’s passing.  A day of reflection and unease for me.  I adored my father.  As a child, as far as I was concerned, my mother was a distant other parent.  This preference lit a fuse whenever our paths crossed.  The wire sizzled but never extinguished itself even though my father died decades before her passing.  As I’ve grown older the memory of the dynamics between mother and daughter is a haunting presence in my life.  She was a perfect woman to all who met her.  To a child, she was an  impossible role model.

To my surprise today I found I had observed her closely.  I see her in a different light. DSCN8692.jpgIf you’ve taken the time to observe a blade of grass after rain, you’ll know what I mean.  You see details, magnified.  The ordinary, made beautiful.  You may even wonder, how did I miss that?  That’s where I am today.

My mother’s family history is rich as it is complex.  I’ve written about it in another post.  The ties that bound the ten siblings were elusive but impossible to sever.  They argued with passion.  They loved each other the same way.  How did we, the next generation, emerge from that family kiln unscathed, remains a mystery to me.  I haven’t seen some cousins for over 35 years.  Yet, we talk like we saw each other yesterday.

I’ve been home for a few days, making my house a home.  I got a corner here or there looking exactly like I want it to.  I’ve even dared to buy indoor plants.  Perhaps subconsciously I’m planning to be home more often.  I’m nesting briefly.

My mother’s home, my home, was so different.  Her touch was different to mine, yet, our yearning for creating a home is one.  I remember our lounge room once had heavy raw silk curtains in a rich cream with burnished orange cushions to contrast.  It was luxurious to the touch and eye.  I’ll never understand how she managed to keep our grubby fingers away from her prized lounge room.   As for me?  I’m especially happy with my ‘organic’ cabinet with my collection of emu eggs, shells, rocks and painted boab nuts.  They are symbolic of my journey and distance travelled.

I stepped away from the mirror I was wiping down.  How did I get here flashed through my mind.  As I did, I caught a glimpse of my mother, in my smile.

The familiarity startled me. The smile was not mine, nor my mother’s smile.

It was a Mona Lisa smile.

Maybe some things are meant to remain a mystery.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I missed it!

It seems another year has ended in a blink.  I’ve travelled endlessly in 2018.  I’ve tried several times to look at my schedule to count the trips and given up by the time I got to March.  The number no longer matters, but the fun I’ve had, does.

So when on to a good thing why Segway off course.  There’s more of the same in the coming months, so move aside, or watch this space, as I segue into 2019.

thumb_IMG_3873_1024.jpgI’m planning more adventures.DSCN9591.jpgAnd will travel winding roads with destination in mind.DSCN6407.jpgI will spend time seaside in the company of seagulls.DSCN5774.jpgI will seek wisdom in silence.thumb_IMG_3928_1024.jpgAnd enjoy working with purpose.  Head down …. you know the drill.DSC_0570.jpgI will learn a sunset is always perfect, and like life, never marred by the unexpected. DSCN4654.jpgAnd like waves, transiency is also beautiful.thumb_IMG_3869_1024.jpgI will take time to watch in awe …thumb_IMG_3870_1024.jpgThe palette I am given each day.thumb_IMG_3950_1024.jpgI will look for the unexpected in whimsy, maybe even throw caution to the wind and let walls once built strong crumble, to let ‘Barry’ in!thumb_IMG_3868_1024.jpg“All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind” (Khalil Gibran)

Cheers!  May we meet in the New Year to dine again in blogosphere.

Until then my warmest wishes to you and your loved ones for 2019.

As always

a dawn bird

 

New Norcia

New Norcia in the Wheatbelt is a small town about 1.5 hour drive from home.  It is Australia’s only monastic town established in 1847.  I drive past it on the way to Moora where I work once every couple of months.  A new highway bypasses the town.  The bypass is a series of sweeping chicanes and although a freight route for road trains, this part of the highway is a pretty fun drive.DSC_0119.jpgThe monastery has several buildings including a small church, all built in Spanish influenced architecture.  I stayed here once overnight.  It was quite an experience!  I drove up the drive way, the building before me resonated of Tara, so naturally the  phrase, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!” looped in my head.

My room was tiny and sparse.  (I’m not sure why I had higher expectations, this is a Benedictine monastery after all!)  The toilet was down the corridor.  I was terrified at night!  I was convinced shadows were shapes, ghostly shapes.  The stuff of nightmares!  It brought out every child’s fear in me.  I had to walk down and back with just a small torch to light my path.DSC_0139.jpgI’ve returned several times here to visit.  I love the little church where I spend a quiet moment or two.DSC_0125.jpgThere were two large boarding schools here, now hired out for events.DSC_0136.jpgThe monks live behind the ornate gate.  They often run retreats.  I’d like to attend one some day.  As a child I enjoyed a weekend silent retreat once a year that we had at school.  On reflection, I have enjoyed moments of silence all my life.  I’ve just realised this.

About 30 years ago the little church was robbed during daylight.  Twenty five post Renaissance paintings were stolen and recovered later, damaged, before they were shipped off to Asia.  This small town and monastery rallied.  They started up a cottage industry selling olive oil and wood fired bread.  The bread is no longer their business, having been sold to a bigger bakery in Perth.  The olive oil is expensive but it is fruity and the real deal.

New Norcia is smack in Wheatbelt country, open beige fields, dust and heat.  The incongruity of this oasis here never fails, yet there is a familiarity that draws me to it.  The architecture is similar to the school I went to in my early childhood, so I try and visit whenever time permits.

It’s time to end my day, so until next time

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

A child is born …

 

It seems fitting at this time of year to talk about childbirth, so I’ll go there!

There are traditions around childbirth in various cultures.  I’ve been exposed to two.  Both very different.

As a child in India i was always surrounded by infants or pregnant women.  Yet, the first time I carried an infant in my arms was when my daughter was placed in mine after birth.  I can still remember the overwhelming sense of wonder and love but was brought back to reality real fast.

I had my baby in a Western country where traditions are different.  One is sent home, sometimes on the same day after giving birth.  And, if working, one gets a few months maternity leave.  If one is lucky maybe a year.  I returned to work nine months after my daughter was born, and five months after my son was born.  The fact I had no choice, that’s how life was, does not lessen my regret.  My disappointment should have plunged me into depression.  It didn’t.  Not sure why, but it didn’t.

When pregnant there were several other women in the office who were due around the same time as me.  And, yes, we blamed a chair in the tea room.  The talk around the table was usually post natal depression (PND).  It was almost a given that one would experience it.  I was perplexed.  I had not heard of PND before.  The women of my childhood were always surrounded by others who seemed to know what support the new mother needed.  DSC_0504Like the tree in a Japanese park, folks seemed to sense where the vulnerability was so support was given psychologically, and also in practical ways.

In India, (at least in the days of my childhood and it is possible this tradition no longer is practiced), soon after the mother gives birth, she is nurtured for 40 days.  She rests and every need is catered.  A special sweet, sort of a bliss ball, made from clarified butter, sugar, edible gum, dried fruits and nuts is made, stored, and eaten every day.  The high caloric food is thought to nourish a mother who breastfeeds.  I can remember aunts and my mother’s friends, lying back on a bed like Cleopatra, having massages with coconut oil rubbed into limbs and hair.  I wanted some of that!

Having experienced so different an experience in a Western culture, I decided to create my own tradition.  I wrote a letter to each of my children after they were born detailing the events surrounding their birth.  It became their favourite story at bedtime.  “Tell me what happened when I was born”, became a plea for some years.  If that didn’t promote good bonding, I’m not sure what else could have been better.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When an end, is a beginning

It’s that time of year.  We may have played host or experienced the graciousness of another.  It’s a time of year when we connect to a Greater Being, others and self.  Hope your day was filled with love and laughter.

Raised a Catholic, Communion was a sacrament received every Sunday and sometimes, more often during the week.  For me, it symbolised oneness.  Long after my divorce the local parish priest advised me I could return to the church, but I could not bring myself to attend Mass and not receive communion.  It’s like being invited to dinner and then told you cannot join others at the table.  Year later I found a priest who encouraged me to receive communion, but I would have to go to reconciliation first.  The challenge for me is to find a priest who is deaf and has a strong heart!  I do believe one day I will be one with my community again because receiving the host is deeply meaningful to me.  The more human I become, my faith gets stronger.  The return of the prodigal is inevitable.  In the interim, I receive the host in other ways.

I often look at the full moon and see a host in the sky.  Much like receiving one, the full moon gives me a sense of oneness.  There is a certain benevolence in the luminosity, so I live in the light, even at midday.

I can recall one evening in Broome.  I was there for the Pearl Festival (Shinju Matsuri).  One of the iconic events is the Floating Lanterns.  I’ve written about it in another post  The full moon.

At that time I had been seeing someone and enjoyed many fun filled hours with him.  I usually don’t tell people what I do for a living until I know them well.  With him, it was easy talk for me.  I felt I could be myself from the first day we met.  Maybe it was me who relaxed more easily in his company and quicker than he did in mine.  It felt refreshing and safe.  Unlike me, he took longer to get there, and when he did, I realised I did not like what was revealed.  DSCN1501.jpgWe were on the beach on the night of the Floating Lanterns.  It was an enchanted sepia dusk, warm and balmy.  The lanterns glowed in the dark as the waves took them further away from the shore.  In that beautiful moment of a moving ceremony, I experienced an epiphany.  I had absolutely nothing to gain and even less to lose.  I wondered how I could extradite myself from the situation.  I turned my back to the ocean and started to walk back to our belongings.  This is what I saw.DSCN1479I knew in an instant where I was in my life.  I was at one with the real me.  That mattered a lot.  It had taken me years.  I was not prepared to compromise on anything and there was nothing worth compromising.  It was liberating to walk away.  An ending became a new beginning.

So here I am untethered again.  My heart is no longer a host to another but the warmth of hospitality remains undiminished.  When the time is right, my heart will be ready to play host again.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

 

 

White magic

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 …DSCN7607.jpgI wanted to visit Shell Beach up in Shark Bay some day.  I was there to see white shells.  I did.  Trillions of them.DSCN8885.jpgI 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.DSCN8629I also love the white wave that brings a poised surfer to shore.DSCN8276The white sundew in spring.DSCN9978A beautiful pest, the arum lily, blooms in the hundreds, roadside in Busselton in the south west.DSCN9406The exquisite white boab flower that blooms up in the Kimberley.DSCN9021 The snowdrops that bloom at my front door, around the anniversary of my father’s passing.DSCN6810Then there are the roses in my garden.  Some pure white.DSCN9729Others, tinged with pink.DSCN2429.jpgAnd 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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Change, as good as a holiday

Summer solstice in Perth is officially a few minutes away.  In nature, a day of transition.  I’m no expert on weather, just an observer, and can attest this year has been the worst for fierce storms. DSCN7076.jpgDecember was to be a month of transitions for me too.  I was anticipating a whirlwind of final visits to all regions.  My trips were booked back to back and with three suitcases (Midwest, South West and Wheatbelt) all packed, it would have been easy to accomplish.  I started my month in Merredin.  I usually spend the night there after the clinic as it is a 3.5-4 hour drive home in open farming country.  Driving at dusk is hazardous with fox and kangaroo being a real threat to safety.  It was a beautiful start to summer with clear skies and early warmth.  I worked steadily all day, but about twenty minutes before my day ended I looked outside the window and noticed a sepia glow.  I walked outside and found massive clouds were rolling in.  I’ve experienced a storm cell in this region before.  I hurried, wanting to escape the onslaught.  I got as far as Kellerberrin, some 30 minutes away when it hit with force for the next hour and a half.  Spectacular lightening, thunder that made my teeth chattered and hail and rain violently smashing my car.  I calmed my nerves saying the insurance would cover any damage (my car is brand new, bought five months ago!).  I was second last in a convoy of several 4WDs, no doubt all contractors like me, headed home in a hurry.  I stayed with them for safety.  Along the way we were stopped, the police and ambulance helping at a roll over.  I averted my gaze.  This is not how a work day should end.  I was perfectly fine all day but by the time I got to Perth I could barely function.  My car was unscathed but not me.  I came down with a flu like virus and spent five days in bed.  I had to cancel two clinics.

I then went to Kalgoorlie, my days there are always busy.  Folks usually show up reliably for their appointments.  I was exhausted by the end of the first day and went straight to bed when I noticed the sky took on an unusual glow.  Then the summer storm hit.  Now, I’ve heard people talk about thunderstorms in the Goldfields but have never really experienced it myself despite working there monthly for years.  Similar to the experience in the Wheatbelt, once again the clouds collided, followed by a drawn out drum roll that sounded like an introduction.  The lightening intense and nuclear bright.  There was nothing gentle about the rain, either.  Already safe in bed I enjoyed the drama so much I decided to record the sounds.  I’ve heard it many times since, each time the memory is accompanied by smile.

Storms are much like life’s obstacles. A nuisance at the time, but enjoyed best on reflection.  This month I had five nights in my own bed.  I can’t remember the last time I did this!

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird

 

 

‘Tis the season, for love

I’ve spend the last two days reflecting on the meaning of love, perhaps, because of the time of year.  My reflections will give me something to write about in the coming weeks.  For now …

At one time I worked with elderly people where one of them was in cognitive decline.  I would often see them soon after a diagnosis was confirmed.  A difficult time.  Anticipating the road ahead for them and for the surviving partner, I would explore the resilience of the relationship.  I found the themes were invariably the same:  humour, and being there for the other.  Their thinking so alike, they were two peas in a pod.

I learned from the themes in these relationships, yes humour and presence, as simple as it sounds, works.  So this post is for them.

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The tremor

She averts her gaze from the future

to his arms on the table

they are strong and still as a bridge

the junction,

where his smile carries her over

a dawn bird

 

All roads lead from here …

I’ve just returned home from my last trip for the year.  I should be tired, but I’m not!  I’m already making plans for next year.

On the flight from Geraldton I thought about the time when I first accepted this type of work; work that entailed frequent travel around the State.  I recall that time of my life well.

A secure, tenured position is where I was, the unknown was … working for myself.DSC_0869.jpgI woke early one morning, a glorious morning.  My hotel balcony overlooked Roebuck Bay in Broome.  This is the moment I heard life speak to me, ‘Leave the ordinary behind’.

That was years ago.

Since then I’ve come to learn.  Like the photograph, one I’ve never been able to capture again, opportunities present themselves at the right moment.  One just has to be prepared to walk untethered from ‘here’ to ‘there’.

It’s a bridge worth crossing at least once in life.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird