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.
The 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.
I’ve returned several times here to visit. I love the little church where I spend a quiet moment or two.
There were two large boarding schools here, now hired out for events.
The 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
Like the tree in a Japanese park, folks seemed to sense where the vulnerability was so support was given psychologically, and also in practical ways.
I 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.
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”.
December 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 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’.
The tiny silvereye was young and bold, sitting exposed and facing the sun.
The Willy Wagtail chick was shiny as a new penny …
looking intently into the distance with wisdom in beady eyes.
The young crested pigeon was gorgeous with ruffled feathers.
What delighted me the most was the juvenile grey fantail.
This little one had the sweetest call, an overture that filled the canopy it sat underneath.
Then a moment of quiet, except for my heartbeat.
The young wattle bird found a perch here and there on banksia cones. The distinctive metallic call silenced, or perhaps not yet developed.
This is the first time I’ve seen a Western spinebill and try as I may, I could not get a better pic but I know I’ll be back next year for it.
This is a place of history. In the early 1900s the drovers stopped here at dusk, a midway point before they walked across the mud flats with cattle, to the Derby Jetty beyond. The journey must have been arduous for the drovers and their cattle. As is now, the sun would have been blistering hot from early day to night fall. Reflecting on their hardship what comes through for me, time and again, is the sense of community they must have experienced at night fall. The camp fires would have been lit. The talk muted. The cattle satiated having quenched their thirst at the Myall Bore and Trough (another icon), before getting here. What did these men talk about? Did they miss family? Is this the only life they knew? I have walked around this site and come up with all kinds of scenarios and characters that must have squat around a campfire, their weary faces aglow with rest at last. I imagine the dinner of some stew, damper bread and billy tea would have been standard fare. I know this because I enjoyed a similar meal a hundred years later at a cattle station. After their meal, the embers would have been contained in the campfire, swags would have been opened and weary bodies wrapped within only to be unwrapped before dawn, when the next day would begin. These men would have worked and rested as one, they would have got the other’s back and watched out for mates. They were community, friends and family on the road. To do this, they had to stay connected. They must have known, for the common interest, the common goal, they had to be.
A Shared Space 
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