let nature

 
 

Let nature
be your life’s coach

Let it work it’s magic
free of charge,
stringless, stingless
any time of day (or night)

Follow it’s seasons:
let them teach you,
challenge and renew you -

Subscribe to it's feed:
the tree rustling
autumn leaving
dusk dancing
twilight twinkle

Consume it’s fresh air
drink in the slow
passing of time:
sun shadowing
ant trailing
weed rambling

Like and like and like

Let it tell you softly
about life and death,
beauty and decay,
respect and plunder
beginnings and endings -
flux, fascination

Let it be wild,
reckless even -
inhospitable,
indomitable
unrelentingly offline -

Perhaps you will feel
changed right away;
a kind of windswept,
barefooted homecoming -

Or maybe like me
it will be a life-long
gathering of gladness:
grounding, skygazing,
dreaming, sorrowful
reminding,
a reckoning too

solstice

today was a perfectly lovely shortest-day-of-the-year - 
it was cold, so very cold
but it was radiantly blue
crisp, sun-soaked

I woke to the uncomfortable snuffling of my baby's congested nose (poor lad)
and the knowledge that my parents were asleep in the spare room
that a happy day awaited us - 
sunday morning pancakes,
cuddles, conversation,
paella, slow pace,

late morning, I walked up those hills you see in the first picture
I watched lambs frolicking
 and wrapped my scarf around my ears
I felt alive and well,
and so thankful for fresh air,
for kin, Creator -

later the boy and I planted 
the little pansies a friend gifted us
and we inspected the garden, 
cypress green
spring onion shoots
curly worms

through the window we spied the babe 
warm, still sleeping -

for such a cold day 
we spent a lot of it outdoors,
and it was the best shortest-day we've had.

frosted

we wake to the chill
outside the world is
patterned with 
white
frosted breath
the still
and the screech 
of birds flying,
the smell
freshness, grassy -

the sun sparkles
off leaf and blade of grass
feet crunch and
nose drip 
drips

most days are not
dusted as beautifully
most are grey and damp
cloudy headed
undecided -

it's strange how 
the colder days
are the clearer ones, 
the crisper ones
and 
the season 
has only just begun.

this is spring

I am disarmed by the beauty of spring,
in our friends' garden 
there is too much to gaze lovingly at 
or smell sweetly or soak newness in -
blossoming trees, bulbs, bush and thicket,
and everywhere the bees! 

I dig away at garden beds
I planted out months ago
in faith - before we left
that I would return for a harvest
and in the meantime my friends would see 
something growing where the ground had been dry,

it's hard work breaking the clay,
pulling up overgrown radishes
and strangled beetroot seedlings,
on my knees I grab handfuls of weeds 
and grasses nudging up around healthy
cabbages, fennel bulbs, kale, celery -
I am filled with glee at the thin garlic tendrils I spy, 
I imagine a bountiful purple clove harvest 
(but am prepared for nothing special)

then, I find treasures -
in amongst the leaves are broccoli heads 
mauve purple and lime green;
the colours only heirloom seeds can bring,
in between clusters of grass
are tiny strawberry plants 
planted seasons ago -

I water and listen
my small companion chicken chasing
or watering can dancing
above me the sway and shhh of grey gums 
whispering,

this is spring...

ode to nature

This week I felt the strongest wind,
too early in the morning
my face whipped with hair,
the chickens huddled,
hay and feed flying -
I saw a structure I came to love
(and spent so many hours in)
tending tomatoes, beans, corn, pumpkins,
mangled beyond repair in a matter of minutes.

I felt a sun so hot it burnt
and we sweat into our clothes
we panted and sought
the shade, we sighed relief
in the late afternoon cool of the dam
ate frozen grapes, tossed and turned
in our beds when the breeze didn't come -

I smelt smoke and saw in the horizon
- not so far away from us -
a grey haze of bushfire,
out of control..

And now a cool change
cold even, prickling the skin
as the night sets in...

I've been at a loss of what to say
or document here these past days,

nature is so powerful
the elements fierce here
red in tooth and claw yes,
and also
beautifully
brown, green, blue -
gentleness and harshness
and all between them.

we want to control what we cannot,
at best we withstand
or fend off or heal from -

we learn to live in readiness,
we learn to live in peace.

seen heard eaten

before the day closes birds, returning
grasses at my feet alive and flowering
eggs hand-picked, brushed, cleaned, drying
a second batch of delicious thick yoghurt, straining
Morning through the dairy window, rising
macadamia shortbread baked, eaten
.
.

to what we see, hear, eat
on any given day
thanks for senses
thanks for kingship
thanks for solitude
thanks for breathing
.

.

 ~ macadamia vanilla bean shortbread ~

1 cup flour (I used a GF rice/tapioca/potato blend) + 1/2 cup for kneading
1/2 cup fine sugar
pinch vanilla bean or 1 tsp vanilla essence
110g salted butter
1 whole egg, lightly beaten
1/2 cup chopped raw macadamia nuts 

Preheat oven to 180'c. With your hands mix flour with sugar and vanilla. Cut butter into cubes and rub into flour until a fine meal. Add egg and nuts and mix to form a dough and knead till smooth on a floured surface adding a little water if its too dry. Bake on a paper lined tray for 8-10 minutes or until lightly golden. Cool and store in an airtight container for up to a week. 
.

happy friday to you
xx

a walk in the woods

we take a walk in the farm's beautiful wood - we go with no expectations, only a desire to be lost in trees. we are struck with the eerie beauty of the place - a sea of grey trunked eucalypts... a soft scattering of green grasses growing beneath... so many fallen logs and dried leaves... about our toes wildflowers - lilac violets, white six point stars... and ones I've never seen before that look like miniature orchids and tiny clusters of pale pink cauliflower. Walk too fast and you miss them. I gather up a bunch in my hands for drawing (and savouring by the window sill). My love captures behind lens and finds weathered glass fragments. The little one thumbs bark and gathers sticks... I pick and pause, thanksgiving for quietude, for moments like these.

Windswept


morning comes abruptly
alarm-chime, heavy sigh, 
tug of sheets, stir of child, 
low-light around the kitchen bench. 

He is first to rise.
never used to,
now always.

I wrestle with the little one
breast or no,
this side of that
sleep more, please
grimace.

I begin the day
reluctantly,
a hot shower
and cup of tea
soften my fatigue.

He returns with
a rainbow in his hands,
I am struck by how
gentle that dead bird looks
beautiful, undiminished in stillness.

while playing on the deck
little one breaks a sprig of lavender
I have always loved the notion of
sprigs of flowers
on cotton calico,
on the carpet,
floating in a warm bath -
I take that lavender to my nose
and breathe in a fragrant peace.

the wind here howls
rattles panes, taps doors,
sways, bends, blows
moves through the cypress
like a tide creeping up
the shoreline.

waves of hair and dirt and grasses,
seeds, smog, lost thoughts.

I am becoming a wind lady
or at least I am learning to let go
and be windswept, untidy,
wild and free.