Category Archives: nature

finding Amos…

18 Saturday Jan 2020

Posted by in Alice Springs, Animals, nature, Synchronicity

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It was a warm summer morning, a welcome couple of degrees cooler than the previous one, and with just enough breeze blowing to maybe keep some of the flies away. Ever since that cruel three millimetres of rain a couple of weeks previously, the one that literally rained mud, the mosquitoes and flies had been horrendous. I can stand the occasional fly, except in my mouth–oh yes, that has happened! But when the sticky ones come in droves and crawl around the moist corners of my eyes and nose, the romantic notion of living in the Outback is quickly replaced with annoyance.

Sun cresting over the ranges looking down the valley

I’d motivated myself to walk because I had been two days without walking, my main source of exercise, and my body needed it. The sun wasn’t over the horizon yet, but the glow was stunning by the time I reached the top of the hill, only a few minutes from our house. As is my habit, I scanned the surroundings while walking down the hill into the golf course valley. A couple of weeks prior I’d looked to my left at that very spot, and there, silently trotting along, were three dingoes, about fifteen feet away from me. They were not interested in me and a minute or so later I realised why. Coming around the corner was shirtless guy and his dog out for their morning run. I’m sure this was all just a little too much urban life for the dingoes who liked the cover of night for their running.

The three amigos hurrying into the valley for cover

As I continued down the hill the sun crested the horizon. There were no other humans around at that moment so I walked, and listened. There is a point near the back of the course where the buggy path diverges into two, one to the left and one to the right, though they meet again at the same place. I saw a small dark ‘something’ in the middle of the left path. Was it moving? I got closer, expecting it to be a bird, feathers being ruffled by the breeze, perhaps. I had found dead birds in this area before. But as I got closer I realised, not only was the ‘something’ moving, it was hissing with what seemed like distress. And no wonder. A few feet closer I realised, it was a tiny kangaroo joey! This just didn’t compute in my brain. Of all the things I’d seen or ever thought I’d see, this was not one of them. Kangaroo mums usually keep their joeys safely inside the pouch…unless…perhaps it had been set upon by the dingoes! I had seen dead kangaroos in this little valley a few times, one morning I even saw a dingo feeding from a carcass. As I rushed up to grab the poor little thing, I simultaneously glanced around for immediate danger, and scanned the joey for injuries.

It seemed remarkably uninjured. And the scrub was quietly holding any secrets it might have. I held the joey close to my body, hoping it would feel the warmth through my tee shirt. It was very distressed and continued to make the hissing sound, but was not aggressive. Slowly, it began to feel the comfort in the rhythmic movement of my body walking rapidly home. Suddenly, nearby there was a young Indigenous man. He saw that I was cradling something and he came over to me. I told him I’d found it in the dirt. He was bewildered and then asked if I wanted him to take it…well actually he motioned that, I don’t think he spoke much English, as is common here. I thanked him and said ‘No, I know who to take it to’. At least I’d hoped I knew. He looked doubtful that this white-fella-woman would know how to care for it but I smiled and said thank you and wished him a good day.

A couple of minutes later I met the old Italian gentleman who walks his German Shepard most mornings. He saw what I was carrying and seemed very concerned. I told him I knew someone who could take care of it and he smiled and said ‘Oh, that’s good’ and gave me a thumbs up! His English wasn’t so great either, but at least I could speak a little Italian if necessary!

A minute or so later shirtless guy, running with his greyhound, came bounding down the hill and gave us an odd look. By this time the return walk seemed like it was taking forever with the wee one still distressed, so I just said good morning and kept moving. I imagine he wondered all day long what I was doing with a tiny joey cuddled in my arms. I know I would have!

I was on the home stretch and started trying to think of what I could put the joey in when I got it home, who I would call, and remembering gratefully this was Don’s morning to leave home later for his weekly commitment at the hospital. He would be there to help. When I got to the glass doors he saw me and came over and as he got closer he rushed to unlock it, having guessed what I was holding. “What have you got there?” I quickly explained to him what had happened and we set about on our divided tasks, he finding the phone number of The Kangaroo Sanctuary, and me finding an old pillow case or tee shirt to hold the joey.

Don took over nursing duty while I phoned the Kangaroo Sanctuary. We had visited the Sanctuary two and a half years before, and saw the love and dedication they gave their little rescued kangaroos and I knew if they couldn’t take the joey, they would know someone who could. Fortunately, Tahnee answered my call and said she was coming into to town in a little over an hour and she would collect little joey herself. This meant I could nurse the sweet little thing, and savour every moment until help arrived. As we sat quietly, joey nestled deeply into the old tee shirt, and quieted down. At one point I could feel his head, moving rhythmically, perhaps sucking on his paw, as they sometimes do. By the time Tahnee arrived, he was calmed down enough to definitely be looking for a teat to feed from. I had tried to give him a drink from a small cloth dipped in water, but he didn’t want that. He wanted the good stuff!

When Tahnee arrived I shared the story of finding the joey alone in the dirt and crying from distress. I explained to her there were regular sightings of dingoes in that area and she said most likely the mother was being chased and she pushed the joey from the pouch, hoping that one or the other of them would be saved. It is a survival strategy that a good Mama kangaroo would employ. She also informed me he was definitely a little boy, and that he was a ‘Euro’ which is a small variety of kangaroo. She said she could tell he was about five months old because his eyes were opened but he had no hair yet. He looked a little like an alien, in fact. He would probably just have begun poking his head out of the pouch at that stage, to get used to the sun, but he couldn’t stand or hop around yet—which was why I had found him laying down but with his head held up as he ‘hissed’. Hissing is the distress sound that a Euro makes, rather than a howl or a wailing sound other animals might make. It actually sounded a bit like wheezing, which alarmed me when I first got close to it. Tahnee said once he was calmed he wouldn’t make that sound all the time, which we had already seen when we were waiting for her to come.

Tahnee recognised me when I called for help at 6.30 that morning, as the person who owned a painting of one of their kangaroos, Queen Abi. Abi is a red kangaroo and is very cuddly and sweet with Tahnee, having been raised by her and Chris, the founder of the Sanctuary. We had actually met Queen Abi when we visited the Sanctuary. I wanted her to see the painting in person and so we showed her inside and she was amazed. She had pictured it as a much smaller work and was delighted to see that it took pride of place in our home. Once she had a look at the joey she asked if she could photograph us in front of the painting—a kind of full circle moment for all of us. She asked, very kindly if we had a name for him and I did. I told her he could be Amos. My Instagram name is ‘Amos the magic dog’, based on a name my Dad gave our lovely old cattle-dog-cross, Storm, over 18 years ago. Both Dad and Storm are gone, but ‘Amos the magic dog’ was what Dad called Storm, since he was kind of a magical little creature for both, appearing out of nowhere, and for disappearing just when you wanted him! He was magic, and so was Amos the joey, who appeared like magic at the perfect time and place for me to rescue him.

Amos the magic joey

After they left, I suddenly remembered, the old tee shirt I had pulled from the drawer was one of Don’s from Sanctuary Cove. It seemed even more likely Amos was on his destined path, two sanctuaries in one day, what are the chances? Tahnee later sent me a video of Amos lapping water from her hand. I think he is a little survivor.

that which breaks us…

10 Friday Jan 2020

Posted by in Alice Springs, nature, sunburnt country

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When I came to live in Australia, nearly thirty-seven years ago, hardly anyone outside of the country knew where it was. It was funny and sad at the same time. When the Olympics was held shortly after we were married I can remember reporters asking people if they knew where Australia was. Some were honest and shrugged and said ‘no’. Some said ‘yes’ and then identified it as the country, Austria, somewhere in Europe. Now we are known far and wide for the tragedy unfolding on our shores. I wasn’t going to keep writing about it, but several people have said to me that it has helped them to read some non-news words.

I have re-written this post three or four times now. The situation changes daily, both locally and nationally. It is like nothing any of us have experienced before.

10 January, clearest skies for a couple of weeks

Every morning I do a ‘mountain check’. One look and I see the air quality. That seems ridiculous to do since we are 1500 to 2000 miles away from where most of the fires are burning. But it is not just the fires, it is the drought, aided by the winds, that we are experiencing. We have some fires here, too, but because we don’t have the fuel load and because our area is not densely populated, it is a different situation. Can I see the mountain clearly or is the layer of haze still veiling it from view? Let’s just say our clear days have been so few in recent months that I’ve actually photographed the couple that we’ve had. Yesterday was one. Usually it is crystal clear blue sky here, day after day.  Two or three evenings ago, the dust and smoke haze was so thick I couldn’t tell if the sun had set or not. The smell of smoke is alarming and we are all on edge. This kind of persistent haze has never happened in the 28 years we have lived here.

Many of us are so broken hearted watching the devastation to the land and inhabitants that we love, we have a form of traumatic stress. Psychologists are telling us this is normal, because the circumstances are not. People feel helpless and because most of us are kind and compassionate, we want to stop the pain we see others experiencing. One manifestation of this has been the outpouring of food and clothing and household items donated to the victims. Sadly, this has created another crisis. The inescapable reality is that most of the victims have no place to keep anything. They have lost their homes, cars, sheds…everything. They can only use what they can keep with them in rescue accommodation, and what they can eat without refrigeration. There is still no power in many places.

The agencies helping people are urging us to give money. Someone said to me it seems soulless to offer money, but in this case it is the most useful thing those of us at distance can do. If you are inclined to give money, Donations to New South Wales Rural Fire Service, Victoria’s Country Fire Authority and South Australia’s Country Fire Service will go towards bushfire efforts. Do not donate to anything that sounds unfamiliar because the scammers are already at work. I’m thinking there is a special place inside a firestorm for scammers, thieves and arsonists, all three of which we are seeing, thankfully only as a small minority. If you are wanting to give money to help animals, Wires and Birdlife Australia are reputable organisations, as well as the ones in this previous post. 

I ride a daily swell of emotion, occasionally am broken, and then regenerate. A recent occasion was a video taken on Kangaroo Island. More than a third of the island has already been decimated by fire, and the wildlife with it. Today, as I write, the fires have flared and worsened and more homes, animals and habitat have been lost. The people in the largest town were trapped and had moved to the shoreline near the water to wait out the latest fires. The video clip to which I refer was shot by a resident in the previously burned out areas as they hunted to find surviving koalas. A scan of the inside of their car revealed at least five koalas, huddled in and on top of the seats. It was a punch in the guts to see the stunned look on the poor creatures’ faces, traumatised but quietly, awaiting help. I’ve seen many photos and videos of firefighters and others giving them drinks from their water bottles, the koalas gently and eagerly accepting the help. The extreme importance of this colony of koalas is that they were a healthy, breeding population. Chlamydia has infected the koala population on the mainland for years. Experts have tried to manage it but in some areas it has effected 100% of the population. 

To what extent we have contributed to climate change is still in question. What isn’t in question is that the environment is very different than it has been in living and recorded history. We have been warned over and over about erratic weather patterns, violent storms, fires and floods. We have not responded effectively. If this isn’t a wakeup call, I don’t want to see what it will take to create one. At the very least, the way we live is not a sustainable and loving way to treat our planet. This week I have learned that 2019 was the hottest and driest in Australia since records started, in 1900. Our beautiful country was uniquely adapted to its normally dry conditions, but this is beyond…

Remnants of the dust storm last night, 11 January

Last night we experienced the most violent dust storm any of us can remember. As I walked to take this photo this morning, rubbish bins and flower pots were strewn along the road, evidence of the winds. The grit in my eyes from just that five minute walk is reflected in the photo. For the second time in a week, the small amount of rain that came was in the form of mud. The windows are streaked with it, having been cleaned only five days ago from the last pitiful rainfall of 3mm (about 1/8th inch).

dirty rain

Our national broadcaster, the ABC, has aired a donation message using their theme of ‘We are One’. We are indeed. The vision was edited to show the devastation but also the positive work that is being done. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing all that vision at once, but I went into the ‘ugly cry’ and felt terribly sad for a few minutes, which helped me release some of the emotion. And then I started feeling a bit better, for seeing the ways in which our country and the world have come together. We are extraordinarily grateful for the world’s well wishes and donations. We will recover, but we will never be quite the same.

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places. –Hemingway

All photos straight out of the camera, no retouching, only cropping.

The date on this post should actually be 11 Saturday January, in case you are confused by the timing of things I refer to. Either WordPress has not figured out how to post on local times, or I have not seen how to do it. Small problems.

loving a sunburnt country…

04 Saturday Jan 2020

Posted by in Life, nature, sunburnt country

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This is not the return (again) to blogging that I imagined. I’m moved to write to whomever have hung on and to any others who might be hearing the plight of Australia’s drought, heat and bushfires that have raged for months.

There is a well loved poem here, called My Country, by Dorothea Mackellar. Perhaps its most famous line…

I love a sunburnt country, a land of sweeping plains, Of ragged mountain ranges, of droughts and flooding rains…

I think of these words each day as I dread turning on the news. Almost daily we hear of worsening fires and personal loss, as well as livestock, habitat and native animal losses. I watch it because it is uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable, I know, as for those who are living it.

We grew up in a small town. When almost anything happened, you would either know the person, the family, or know someone who knew them. That is how Australia feels to me. We are the same size as the contiguous USA, but only a tiny fraction of the population size. We have traveled all over Australia and it has always been our favourite kind of travel. So when something devastating happens, it feels like it is happening to someone we know. My heart is very heavy. I watch so I can understand the challenges and witness the triumph of humans during tragedy, as well as the horror when humans make bad decisions…like starting fires in a tinder dry country.

Parts of our country have been in drought for 5 or more years. Last year the Murray Darling River was so dry in spots that millions of fish died, towns ran out of water, farmers went out of business, entire regions suffered. Farmers have had to de-stock their stations because they are out of grazing land and feed is too expensive for them to buy when they have no income. Further, lands this dry are vulnerable to dust storms that carry topsoil thousands of kilometres, here to Alice Springs and beyond.

…Core of my heart, my country! Her pitiless blue sky, When sick at heart around us, We see the cattle die…

Fires have spread like angry beasts to wine producing regions and fruit growing areas, previously moist enough to resist them. While it is true that people who live in the bush sometimes allow too much build up of fuel on their properties, it is also true that previous fires have been more manageable. We are witnessing unprecedented heat and winds on top of drought and the results are quite literally catastrophic.

barely visible Mt Gillen this morning

A few days ago the government deployed military personal and boats to assist in areas where the power, food and water were gone and to evacuate people. Some were taking refuge in and near the water, where possible, because the fires were still threatening, having already taken hundreds of properties and an unknown number of lives. Over a thousand people have been evacuated on navy ships, while many thousands more have vacated the fire threatened regions when and if they can get petrol to do so. This is not easily possible in some areas where fuel is scarce, though being transported in, and where there is only a single highway in and out of the areas. Fallen trees and fires that have jumped roadways have necessitated road closures, trapping people in some cases.

In fires back in September/October, a huge area of koala habitat was destroyed, as were hundreds of koalas. People began bringing Koalas to the Port MacQuarie Koala Hospital and their Go Fund Me page saw generous donations from everywhere, enabling their important work for now and the future. They will be using some of the money to establish wildlife drinking stations over a wide range of lands, but the loss has still been devastating. Estimates of losses at nearly half a billion animals have shocked all of us.

Now we are donating to the people who have lost everything. Most of these people were living in regional areas because they love it, but also it is less expensive. Many do not have insurance and cannot afford to rebuild. The government is working on helping them, but of course no government can afford to rebuild housing for so many lost properties. And no one can replace a lifetime of physical mementos. But with help many will be able to rebuild and move forward.

Here in Alice we have learned 2019 was our driest on record. We received only 67mm (2.6 inches) of rain where our normal is 289mm. This, after a particularly dry previous year. Our town basin water is at its lowest point ever. We have had many more dust storms than normal, and high winds much of the time in between, drying the land out further and creating poor air quality. Mostly it is not heavily laced with smoke, though sometimes it is. Areas around Alice have burned periodically over the last year. We live in a place where everything is brought from a distance where it can be grown, so we are quite vulnerable when large scale flooding, drought and fires happen. Unprecedented, sustained temperatures in excess of 40C up to 46C (114F) have taken a toll even on the native vegetation.

This morning as I write I can barely see the mountain for dust in the air. But I know the winds and heat we have had are moving south and will worsen their fires. I feel somehow complicit. There are dire warnings for this day in particular. There are still hundreds of fires burning, many out of control. If you are seeing these stories in your news, believe them. It is real, and much worse than most of us ever thought we would see. We know we are in this together, that Australians are resilient and compassionate people—even more so for the hardships suffered.

And finally, to the thousands of volunteer firefighters who make up most of the crews. I cannot imagine how exhausted you are, the horrors you have seen or the size of your hearts to protect your fellow beings. We are all enormously grateful.

An opal-hearted country, A wilful lavish land– All you who have not loved her, you will not understand–

circle of life…

03 Tuesday Sep 2019

Posted by in Alice Springs, nature

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Months can go by and nothing extra special happens on my walks. The walks are always special to me because I love the light and tiny changes I observe along the way…neighbours having lawn sales, trees shedding their bark or leafing in the spring, flowers defying the incredibly inhospitable conditions. In fact I was attempting to photograph a spring flower on a very dusty plant when something caught my attention. I think it was the bright white amongst all the red dust covered foliage because there certainly wasn’t much movement.

Notice the red dust on the older leaves, but how bright the growing tips and flower are.

There just a few feet away was a white butterfly solidly clinging to a naked branch on a naked bush riddled with sharp thorns! I decided to see if the butterfly would sit still long enough for me to get a decent shot. Turned out, this Caper White butterfly wasn’t going anywhere. As I got closer I realised there were about 9 or 10 chrysalises lined up on the same branch, and it looked as if this was the first fully fledged butterfly to emerge. The transition from caterpillar to butterfly is really one of nature’s most amazing life cycles.

There were a few Capers flying in the area and I stopped to watch, but the solitary one on the branch held tight. I realised it would have been freshly emerged and trying to dry its wings so it could join the others.

the first morning and the butterfly was clinging solidly to the thorny branch.
White flashes amongst the dusty leaves

The following morning I decided to again try my luck and chase the butterfly trail. Since there was not a single leaf left on the two bushes where I found chrysalises, I hadn’t been able to identify the plant they chose for their nursery. Fortunately, a local woman saw my Instagram post and added the identifying species of both plant and butterfly. Gold. When she said the name of the plant something seemed very familiar. I turned it over and over in my head and then looked it up online. More gold. It turned out, even though these bushes were currently without foliage, I had actually photographed one four years ago in full foliage and with a gorgeous blossom. Eureka! The plant is called Bush Passionfruit and both the blossom and the fruit hold some similarities to the domestic passionfruit. The blossom smells very sweet, has long stamen and the fruit is much smaller but sweet and usually attacked by birds and ants before humans can retrieve it! It is a well known bush food for the indigenous people. Apparently the plant recovers very quickly after the decimation of the leaves.

Tiny little caterpillars feeding on the Bush Passionfruit leaves
Caterpillar about to form its chrysalis
The second morning
Bush Passionfruit in full recovery (photo Jan 2015)
I still remember its heady perfume

On that last morning it seemed I had already enjoyed the peak activity on the previous day…until I walked away and saw another, larger nearly naked bush, with caterpillars and chrysalises on it. This completed the life cycle story. Oh, except for this shot…. someone is already doing some family planning for the future!

(this post was inspired by Kim Smith whose blog is called Nature is My Therapy. She writes compelling stories about her adventures and excellent photos to accompany the words)

a survival story…

12 Thursday Jul 2018

Posted by in Animals, nature

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Let me set the scene for you. It is the day after the twelve boys and their coach have been rescued from the cave in Thailand. It is a winter morning and -3C (26F) outside. I prevaricate over my usual morning walk. Will I? Won’t I? Gee it is cold. Those 12 children and their young coach got through 16 days trapped in a cave, surely I can put on my nice warm clothes and walk for 50 minutes.

I jogged up the hill near my house, walked 30 metres or so to catch my breath and then decided more jogging must happen to warm up. As I jog down the other side of the hill, still trying to get my blood pumping, I see some scavenger birds circling a distant, dark shape on the fairway of the fourth hole (we live on a golf course). A few more metres and I realise the shape is a Dingo feeding…on a dead kangaroo. I pull my camera (which is my iPhone) from my pocket and open it up, hoping that my cold fingers can still get the touch controls to work. I take a photo that I know will show very little, but it is just to get the settings right and make sure the touch control is working. As is my usual practice with wild life, I slow down. As I approach, every few metres, I take another photo, and another, refocusing and getting closer each time.

The birds of prey begin to scatter. The Dingo eyes me nervously but he is hungry, so he continues. Finally, he thinks I am too close and he reluctantly begins to head toward the taller grasses at the edge of the course, looking back over his shoulder all the while. He still doesn’t want to leave his meal behind so he stops…and watches me. I’m relieved that he is somewhat afraid of me since I am walking alone and have no means of fending off an attack. He has what he wants anyway, and that is not me.

I quietly walk on and soon am getting farther away. He decides I mean him no harm and he approaches the carcass again. Now I can see the bloody bare bones of the rib cage but I know if I stop it will spook him so I continue on. I don’t want a graphic photo of the corpse in any case. I know this is Mother Nature and all part of the survival of the fittest.

And what about those boys and their coach, and their rescuers? If that isn’t also a tale of survival, I must have missed something. The world is a marvel and a mystery, revealing itself every day.

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Dingo and dead kangaroo in the middle ground of the fairway

the stories within us…

01 Sunday Jul 2018

Posted by in Alice Springs, Inspiration, Life, nature

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Just after the sun had broken over the horizon, sending a few bleak wintery rays across the grasses in front of the house, I looked out the expanse of windows that stretch the width of the west facing end. There, about 30 feet in front of the windows, silent and purposeful, strode a lone Dingo. So quiet, the neighbourhood dogs even missed a good chance to raise the alarm. So quiet, I later wondered if I had seen it at all. Nearly the same colour as the dried, blonde grasses, only the dark spot of his eye and his nose and the sunlit hairs on the ridge of his back and the plume of the tail shone his shape. Perfect camouflage.

Lingers in my mind’s eye like a dream.

I set out for my walk moments later, in the direction the Dingo was heading. A single lone Dingo was probably nothing to be concerned about since I wasn’t walking a small dog that might be mistaken as breakfast. I kept my eye on the tall grasses walking over crisp, frosted ground, down the desolate back of the golf course on a Sunday morning. No further sightings. I wondered…is this the new normal of our cohabitation? The Dingo casually strolls through the neighbourhood while I keep a watchful eye and go for my morning walk.

Stranger things have happened.

The day before, a small mob of Wallabies had converged on our patio, scratching themselves thoughtfully, studying the windows…the same windows on the world through which I had seen the Dingo. The two adults and two joeys probably saw their reflections, or maybe some slight movement inside as I adjusted myself for a better view of them. Most likely the reflections of the rocky outcrop and sky behind them was their point of interest. It must be very confusing for them. Imagine if we all became focused on what was behind us rather than moving forward. The Wallabies were not seduced. Slowly they moved up the breezeway that gave them safe passage to the bottom of the driveway and within a few hops of the road. If they cross the road safely, which has always happened in the 20 years we have lived here, there is only one row of houses and then they are back in the bush again.

With the Dingoes.

Almost 40 years ago, I looked out of another expanse of windows. It was a whole lifetime ago for me–for the world. I was high atop the World Trade Center in New York City. The place was called ‘Windows on the World’. We were there for a cocktail reception for a national gathering of Television Promotion Managers and Art Directors. Below, an enormous world of skyscrapers, tiny ships and cars, and even tinier humans, spread out for many miles. They went about the business of the world. And now, I watch the business of Mother Nature where species learn to live with one another and it is survival of the fittest. No trace or photos of any of it, just what my brain has selectively conserved. Why would this memory visit me now? Why can I remember conversing with two fellows from Australia, one from Sydney, one from Wollongong, forty years ago, but have trouble remembering what I had two days ago for breakfast?

How do we reconcile the worlds within us? For the most part it is an unconscious process. But now and again we tell stories and make art and that turns something with seemingly no purpose into something of value.

 

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Winter Solstice

 

 

on poetry and ordinary things…

22 Sunday Apr 2018

Posted by in Alice Springs, Animals, nature

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Still dark, I lay in bed, door open to the cool early dawn air. Musical tones, almost conversational, and a little eerie, drift in from not far away. The dingoes are back.

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pied butcher bird

Pied Butcher Bird practices her beautiful song for quite a long while. I stretch and bend my body toward functionality, which is my morning practice. The piercing song sinks deep into my psyche. I wonder what the unfortunately named bird was singing about? A nice insect it had just consumed? A good place to perch? Come here…this garden has no cats or dogs and they keep a nice bowl of water too.

Or maybe, “beware, the dingoes are near.”

I set off on my morning walk…listening to a favourite podcast. The episode was from Krista Tippett (On Being) interviewing beloved Irish poet, Michael Longley. More and more, I find myself being drawn to poets and their concise artistry.

The interview started with Michael Longley quoting his own favourite poet:

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morning light

“There’s a line by John Clare that I adore. I love John Clare. I revere him. “Poets love nature, and themselves are love.” And I believe that with all my heart. And part of writing is adoration. For me, celebrating the wildflowers or the birds is like a kind of worship.”

Those words pulled me in and for the remainder of the walk I was absorbed in a sort of reverie of someone else’s experiences, uniquely expressed, yet similar to my own. That is what art hopes to achieve, something previously unidentified, but immediately recognisable.

The Wedge Tail Kites (large birds of prey) circled above me, occasionally landing near enough to see how large they were. Some are big enough that my neighbour carries a golf club to chase them away, lest their carnivorous tendencies see her young puppy as breakfast!

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ordinary minutia

In my ears, unfolded ‘The Vitality of Ordinary Things’.* Even thinking about it now reminds me of my own strong connection with tiny and ordinary pieces of life. It has only been in the last decade or so that I have recognised my own fascination with this side of life. I think it has always been there. I just hadn’t realised it was a theme—perhaps not had the mental space to see it.

Once you see a thing, it cannot be unseen.

Home again. My daily habit is to water the rosemary plants, growing in pots along the patio. I lifted the metal watering bowl we keep in the outside sink. A sizeable, and  nearly expired, lizard had curled up underneath and was still–eyes closed, but not yet dead. Poor thing, what is there to do? I picked it up gently and placed it in the shade of the vines, surrounding the rosemary pots, hoping it wasn’t too late for it to revive. Its response was not encouraging. As you know, I’m sympathetic to the lizards around here and this was one I didn’t often see–about three times the length of a gecko and with lovely patterned skin. After laying his limp body in the shade, I dribbled a little water over him. Eyes still shut, he looked dehydrated, hovering near death. I suspect he had crawled into the sink for water and then couldn’t get out again. It happens sometimes, and with our hot weather, anything that small can dehydrate quickly.

I felt sad, and more than a little worried for him, having lost Bernie so recently.

Wanting to know…and yet fearing how the lizard fared, I waited a few hours to check on him. I carefully picked through the vines to peek and see if by some miracle he had revived. ‘My stars and garters!’, as my Aunt used to say! There he was blinking back at me. He looked almost normal and not in a huge rush to scurry away. And me with no camera.

But I have a pen.

And paper.

How much more of an ordinary thing can one do, but to interact with nature? Then again, how much more of an extra-ordinary thing can one do but to save a life?

Anything, however small, may make a poem; nothing, however great, is certain to. –Edward Thomas

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likeness of rescued lizard

 

*for the uninitiated, Michael Longley has the most gentle and calm Irish voice and explains so well the creative life of a poet as well as some of the complexities of life in Northern Ireland. He is an agnostic, so if this bothers you, try to put it to one side. You will see that he is deeply reverent and impishly delightful. The link I have given is so that you can listen to the interview on the computer or read the transcript, or see the title and find it in your podcast app. I have to say, though, it is his lovely, lilting voice that enhances his thoughts and humour, so if you can listen. It is worthwhile.

of lizards and life…

27 Saturday Jan 2018

Posted by in Animals, nature

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For a few moments I melded with the sunlit rocky outcrop reflected in the glass. It was peaceful there without my mind unraveling its usual tale of woe.

Sips coffee.

Heart is wrenched at the thought of the old man who looked like my father, shuffling along in front of me a few days ago. As time goes I somehow miss him more. I thought it would all fade as the years passed.

Begins another day.

There are lizards in my life. As a personal animal totem–not necessarily mine, but maybe… a lizard can symbolise repetition of cycles. It can also mean a person is extremely good at facing their own fears and moving between realities and alternate existences. How does one know what is reality and what is otherworldly? Both can seem so real and yet so preposterous.

Our bearded dragon sits patiently in the tree near the patio, waiting for his lunch to crawl or fly past. Take away, fast food. Or sometimes he sits in the top of the rosemary bush, doing much the same, but the scenery is different. Now and then he trots out onto the golf course, a hundred feet or so in front of the house, and he sits. Frozen in the heat. Occasionally he raises a leg and holds it in the air, as if uncertain of his next move. Or he bobs his head up and down–now what is that about? Makes me smile.

a view of the mountain and perchance a snack?
a change of scenery from the rosemary bush

The pygmy goannas rent a holiday space in the rafters above the insulation in our house. They come and go and, except for years of mice in plague proportions, keep the house fairly rodent-free. Hearing the occasional scuffle in the ceiling is more reassuring than worrying. They sometimes peer at me through stored pots in the corner of the courtyard beside the clothesline. Is she friend or foe? I turn to hang a pillowcase, hear a soft sliding sound and look back in time to see a long dark tail disappearing into the roof space. Very occasionally I see them out and about, crawling through the courtyard, stopping frequently in case a snack is nearby. Once, in winter, I discovered them sunning on the side of the studio. Am guessing the rammed earth walls are very user friendly for their claws. They have been around this property since we moved here 20 years ago, and probably before that.

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pygmy goanna sunbather

Geckos are ubiquitous. They party at night when we are asleep, feasting on a banquet of mosquitoes, moths and insects, if the copious droppings are anything to go by. Our geckos almost never die in the house, thank goodness, but they love to shed their skins here. Every few months I find a gecko skin, nearly perfectly formed and left behind in the ledge of our bedroom window. The skins are translucent, soft and pliable. The window is always in dappled light, with leaf litter below and native bushes a few feet in front. It must seem a friendly space. I wonder what it feels like to not just metaphorically shed one’s skin?

after the shedding…
off with the old…

The art of my life is when I see things that evoke feelings which I am able to access and turn into words or drawings. I wish for you, lizards and alternate realities and a muse who will help you spin them into gold.

When we bring what is within out into the world, miracles happen. ~ Henry David Thoreau

the dingo chronicles…

04 Thursday Jan 2018

Posted by in Animals, nature

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IMG_0694On the second day of new year, January’s Wolf moon had nearly dipped behind the ranges as I stepped out for my early morning walk. I had descendants of the wolf on my mind as I skirted the area I normally walk through, in favour of a, hopefully, safer one. The previous morning my husband and his mates saw five–five dingoes rolling and frolicking in the grass on the 6th Fairway, about 12 minutes’ walk from our house and about a third of the way along my normal route. In the past we have seen two or three at a time, but never five. So, while I was walking I stopped the dog walkers alerting them to the situation. There have been two incidents that I know of a couple of years ago; one with a lady I know who was stalked by three dingoes while she was walking her tiny little mouthful of a dog, and another where the dingoes actually got into a neighbour’s yard and helped themselves to a tiny little canine entrée.

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Wild Dingoes on the fairway in front of our house

Dingoes are gorgeous creatures but they are a nuisance in an urban setting. The area where we live is between the golf course and the bush so it is a difficult place for the Rangers to patrol—very easy for the dogs to slip through to the scrub and go undetected. The dingoes are protected so would only be caught and relocated, which is good, but first they must be caught.

Last year during my time away from blogging, a friend sent me a notice about a writing competition in a nice magazine here in Australia. Just to exercise my writing muscle, I entered. It is intimidating to know where to start when one has such a wide scope for subject matter. I finally settled on a reworked post from this blog since the article was to be something that exhibited Australian life. It was about previous encounters I’ve had with the dingoes –you might like to read the entry here– the dingo and the light chaser. It was not selected for the magazine, but I’m sure they received many pieces and who ever knows what judges are looking for in these things? And it might just be crap, I don’t know. It’s important to keep one’s perspective about why we write so that our fragile egos are not too damaged. As you can see, I’m undaunted.

Just after sending the entry, I was laying on the sofa in the dark one morning, waiting for it to be light enough to walk. (I sometimes wake up at ridiculous hours) Out of the pre-dawn came a chorus I will never forget. The family of dingoes must have been within metres of our house as they began their serenade. It was obvious there were younger, higher pitched voices mixed with the more experienced, deeper ones, practicing their howling skills. It lasted maybe ten or fifteen seconds. I peered into the darkness. Couldn’t see a thing. But they were there.

Again, the day after I began writing this piece, an adult dingo was within metres of our house, sniffing through the fence at the little white yapping morsel next door. If I was cruel I would wish the dingo bon appétit. The entire neighbourhood bristled to life with workmen jumping down from their scaffolds to watch and neighbourhood dogs announcing the dingo’s journey as it moved, unhurried, along its way, into the rocky outcrops and relative safety.

early risings…

17 Sunday Dec 2017

Posted by in Alice Springs, Life, nature, photography

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As I understand it, we tend to be either morning risers or night people. I can’t say with certainty if I was born with the early riser’s tendency, but it was certainly nurtured into me. I’ve been getting up before sunrise since I was very young. Those early summer mornings as a teen went mostly unappreciated, I must admit. Rising at 4.30 was to help Mom make umpteen sandwiches for my Dad and brothers to eat during their day of work at the Christmas tree farm. (Corsi Tree Farm is now operated by my brother, visit here) Fried bologna (fritz) sandwiches, unadorned, save a little mustard, is forever in my memory. None of us ever tired of eating them, only of making them! Lunches made, boys and father packed off to the farm, Mom and I would have breakfast and begin our daily chores at home. It was always a good feeling to know most of the day’s hard yakka was done by lunch time.

School started for us at 7.30am, so even when summer was over we had to wake early for five to use one bathroom and get to school and work. At 2.15 in the afternoon the bell would ring and we catapulted from our seats into after school activities or jobs. Growing up in this kind of environment created some very productive people!

These days I wake early, mostly because I can’t sleep any longer. It’s one of life’s ironies that when you reach a stage in life where you have time to sleep, you can’t. However I think I am, at heart, a morning person, so there are worse afflictions that could, and have, happened. 

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Probably my all time favourite photo, capturing my favourite phase of the moon, a bird, a tree and the sky at early dawn, all things I love.

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Pink virga and rainbow adorned sky

When the light is still tenuous is my very favourite time; moon still visible, a couple of stars perhaps, delicate symphony of morning chorus. If only it could last a little longer. Clear days produce stunning, ombré shaded skies…and flies. Cloudy skies hold the element of surprise…and even more flies. Hard to say which skies I love more. The flies I love not at all. Just this week, pink infused virga, defied gravity, evaporating before reaching the thirsty ground. Cloud and sun played hide and seek, sending shafts of light to illuminate mountain tips, tree tops and grasses before suddenly being swallowed by grey. As a light chaser, I am utterly compelled to photograph all of it, though my efforts are not always successful.

along rocky outcrops at the back of the golf course on a cloudy morning
along rocky outcrops at the back of the golf course this almost, clear morning

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Morning sky this week

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Galahs in gum tree

The first part of my walk is the quiet, contemplative stretch that takes me to the back of the golf course along rocky outcrops and where I seldom see any humans, but occasionally a dingo or kangaroo. Galahs tumble from their perches, wheeling through the sky and calling to each other. Occasionally some lunatic crested pigeons try to impress each other with mating manoeuvres while balancing on high wires. To each their own.

The second phase of the walk takes me toward civilisation where I encounter a few early risers like myself. Easing into the day, we nameless regulars make our rounds, loners like me as well as enthusiastic dogs accompanying their more sedate human companions. The last quarter of the walk is up my street where I can see who is moving in and out, who has put in a new garden, who has their garbage bin in place for weekly collection—who hasn’t bothered to bring it in from last week’s collection. Occasionally I have a brief conversation with a neighbour but mostly at that early hour, it is just a wave of recognition.IMG_6464

Sun reaches higher and burns away the long blue shadows of early morning. Soft golden highlights transform into harsh daylight, edging objects with brittle, little black seepages. Gone the promise. Enter reality, where earlier images are but shimmers in my mind.

Good morning from Central Australia.