Category Archives: Synchronicity

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.

it’s not over til it’s over…

22 Thursday Sep 2016

Posted by in Life, photography, Synchronicity

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Recently I read a blog that retold an old Zen story. The story goes that an old farmer had a series of incidents in his life, each one seeming either very bad, or very good. After each one, his friends either commiserated with him or congratulated him, and each time his response was the same… ‘maybe’. In other words, he wasn’t buying into the outcome, one way or the other, because after each seemingly good outcome, some catastrophe would develop and after each disappointing outcome, something good would come. The story wasn’t over until Life said it was.

When I was 17 and in my last year of high school, we were required to take entrance exams for certain Universities that we wished to attend. I had not realised results could be withheld until it was known the score. My results were sent directly to the one and only University I had chosen to attend. They had a rather high standard for admittance, and I had a lower than expected score on the entrance exam. I was sick the day I took it. Even though my grades were well above average, this exam was crucial. I missed out.

For a while I convinced myself I didn’t care and that I didn’t even want to attend University. And then came a letter. The University had a ‘quota program’ for students who were in the exact position as myself. I would need to bring a portfolio of my work and be interviewed by a staff member of the Fine Art Department, to which I had applied. The drive was several hours away and my dear, supportive Mother delivered me at the appointed time. To say I was nervous might be the understatement of my life to that point. Petrified might be closer to the mark. The interview seemed to go fine but the Professor who interviewed me showed me some of the other portfolios and I could see the competition was of a high standard. Many students had had four years of art in high school and their skills were far beyond mine. Our little school had not even had an art teacher until my final year. To try and get a portfolio together, I had taken two classes at once most of the year, using a free period as extra art time.

After weeks of waiting, the news was good. I was accepted. Years later the professor with whom I had interviewed, told me, often the students who are admitted under the quota program achieved better results than those admitted under normal circumstances. He felt it was because the quota students ‘wanted it more’. Maybe.

Japanese Quince, Royal Botanic Garden Sydney
Seeing Frida Kalo exhibition at Art Gallery NSW. She was bigger than life, and this photo seemed to say that.
the Fine Food Store, for breakfast. Excellent.
Mercantile Hotel, Sydney Rocks with morning light.
One hundred aspects of the Moon exhibition at Art Gallery New South Wales. An eclipse of the moon depicted by artist Yoshitoshi, late 1800’s.
zen tea at the Fine Food Store

On our return trip from a short break in Sydney, Don and I were seated in our respective window and aisle seats in economy, with a seat between us. Because we are very frequent flyers, Qantas will often leave a seat vacant between us, for more comfort. Just after the door had closed and I had fastened my seat belt, I heard the head attendant saying to an elderly woman, you can have either seat 20B or seat 5B. Don and I were in row 5, and yes, you guess correctly, she chose 5B. She was a large woman, not so much overweight, as just tall and wide. She was also not nimble, and the seats are narrow. Seemingly inexperienced with flying, she attempted to climb over me as I was trying to get out of my seat and give her easier access. She didn’t grasp what was happening. Awkward. The attendant, gently took the woman by the arm and pulled her aside to allow me to get out and then for her to get into the middle seat. It was crowded. I adjusted myself, leaning toward the aisle side of my seat, and continued reading. After we took off, an attendant came to assist the woman to the toilet. While she was away, another attendant quickly whisked us out of our seats and into Business Class seats for the duration. Life, as well as the attendant, had seen a different vision for us.

Countless experiences of this nature fill my life. Life knows what it is doing, even if we sometimes don’t. It’s never over, til it’s over.

Processed with Snapseed.

the photo I nearly missed, after the sunset…not over until it’s over

that which was meant to be…

16 Wednesday Sep 2015

Posted by in Life, Synchronicity

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And what was not possible all too easily becomes the story of our lives. Indeed, our lived lives might become a protracted mourning for, or an endless tantrum about, the lives we were unable to live. But the exemptions we suffer, whether forced or chosen, make us who we are. –Maria Popova, Brainpickings

Perhaps, we are partly what we never were able to be, but I believe we are also that which we have found was not what we wanted. And then there is synchronicity –that which was meant to be.166920_277436458994754_95635753_n

Even 40 years ago when I graduated from University, most of us were ill prepared to enter the work force. We had to jag a lucky break or someone to mentor us. I had tried to answer ads and arrange interviews but no one was really hiring a freshly churned out Fine Arts graduate. There was a fellow who had done some design work for my Parents’ business a couple of years before. He said to me, if I ever needed any help, to contact him. It was pretty clear I needed help. Having no idea what he meant by the offer, I decided to find out.

He saw me immediately and told me straight up, he had no position open–but he had a spare drafting table and if I wanted to come to his office every day, just like a job, he would teach me what he could. In return, if he had a few scraps of work he would send it my way, not for pay, but for the experience. Who in their right mind would answer such a non-job advertisement? But, I was so excited to work in a real studio and for someone willing to teach me, I accepted without hesitation. It was nearly a three quarter hour commute, each way, and I had no car yet (no job, no money) and no public transport. However, my supportive parents let me use one of their cars some days, and other days I got a ride with a friend who worked at a radio station nearby.

Over a period of several months I appeared each day in his office and tried to soak up what he had time to teach me. He was very generous. One of the things he taught me was how to use type. He helped me see that even though a picture may be worth a thousand words, we seldom see a picture in the advertising world, that isn’t coupled with words, even if it’s just the company’s name who paid for the ad. Those words are important, both in what they say, and how they say it visually. Unaware, the reader could be impacted by the actual typeface that was used. You may have heard of typeface names like Helvetica and Times, two of the most common, but there are hundreds of others.

Some days my focus would shift to seeking further interviews in hopes a paying job might eventuate. My friend who worked at the radio station was in the same building as the ‘sister’ TV station in Cincinnati. We both still lived 45 minutes east of the city with our parents. She asked the artist at the TV station if he would just talk to me and perhaps give me any tips he might have. The interview was arranged and my friend and I were going to have lunch afterward. His office was in the lower level of the building, in a rather creepy corner near the news cameramen’s workbench. But of course, to me it looked exciting–the ‘nitty gritty’ of a TV station–oooo. The following week the artist was in the middle of showing me some of his work and telling me what a dull and thankless job it really was, and being generally discouraging, when his phone rang.

He answered and then turned to me and said “The call is for you”. Huh?

When I took the receiver, it was my friend who had arranged the interview saying to me “Get out of there now, meet me in the lobby. Tell him your Mother is ill or something, just meet me in the lobby”. It was all very cloak and dagger in my naive experience and so I packed my portfolio quickly and thanked the man, mumbling something about my mother being taken ill, and beat a hasty retreat.

Once in the lobby she said, come with me, there’s someone you need to meet. She explained she was just talking to ‘a new guy’, telling him I was there meeting the artist. He told her to get me away from the artist, and upstairs to see him as soon as she could. She took me to the executive offices and introduced me to a charismatic man who then explained to me he was the new Creative Services Manager and wanted to have a look at my portfolio. He picked up each piece and talked to me about my education and other life experiences, particularly about the previous summer studying in Italy, and my recent work experience. And then he held up a card he had been carrying that had on it a single typewritten word. He asked me “What type face is this?”

After careful analysis I said “Helvetica”.

“Helvetica Bold, to be exact” he said, “but that’s close enough”. It was the icing on the cake of that interview, he later told me. He wouldn’t have hired me if I didn’t know anything about type, because in those days much of that job had to do with using type to create camera cards and ads. Now, it is all done with a computer. The cloak and dagger tactics were used because the artist I was talking to was about to get the sack, and I was hired to take his job!! It turned out the guy was as creepy as the location of his workspace, and had a bad attitude for learning the new methods I was eager to learn. I was the Graphic Artist, promoted to Art Director for several years, becoming the Creative Services Manager when my mentor moved on, four years after hiring me.

That fateful day after the interview, I had gone back to the artist’s studio to pick up my materials and tell him I’d gotten a job, and that his teaching me the typefaces had proved invaluable. I asked him how I could ever thank him? He told me he had made that same offer to dozens of students over the years but I was the only one to have ever accepted. (Maybe I was the only one desperate enough!) And then he said, ‘just help someone else someday, that will be thanks enough’.

Years later, at a TV station in Florida, I was able to pay it forward in a couple of ways…one was to an aspiring young artist I hired for a summer. The other, when I hired the woman who later became the wife of the Creative Services Manager who originally hired me. Meant to be.