Seasonal inspiration

Sociable species

2012-02-09T21:15:00.000+13:00

The morning Tai Chi by the sea begins, with a lone seagull on the roof, and a lone shag on the boat ramp.

It's a long boat ramp, with plenty of room. But where does the second shag land? Why, right beside the other one.

Then she decides she would prefer to sit on the other side. So she crosses over,

and flaps her wings to dry them out after swimming and diving for fish

The other shag is unperturbed. She must be used to the fact that they perch together. Its a little bit like the herding instinct that leads humans in an empty carpark to park alongside each other.

It's friendly and companionable. It must go back to some ancient instinct of safety in numbers.

The newcomer starts preening now, and soon will settle down alongside the other one. Patiently they will rest and dry out in the sun.
Meanwhile I do my Tai Chi moves. As I spread my arms out and draw them back, I think of it as 'Drying one's wings', and as I do the final move, it becomes, 'patient like a shag'.

First swim!

2012-02-09T14:21:00.000+13:00

I blush. It took till the 7th of February, when the day was bright and warm and it felt that yes, summer really has arrived, before I took my first swim.

I lay on the beach at the end of the day with two friends. Two more, on the water, showed us how it's done (I've forgotten, it's been so long). In I plunged. And it was warm, apart from little nips of cold around the ankles from time to time.
I can't remember a summer when I haven't been in the sea in December, or at the latest, January. But this summer has been a tease, with plenty of rain, clouds, and cool winds. Now that I've taken the plunge at last, I can't wait to do it again. But today isn't so tempting, and the tide is a bit too far out, so maybe tomorrow . . . (sigh).

Morning light

2012-02-07T16:56:00.000+13:00

The mornings are cooler now, down at the jetty. I'm noticing the diminishing light now that we've reached the half-way point between summer solstice and autumn equinox. But the quality of the light has become magical, bringing new beauty to this familiar spot as the tide laps against the shore.

No shags on the boat ramp. All is still.

Silent and empty.

Utter peace.

Spreading one's wings

2012-02-05T10:39:00.000+13:00

Mother shag is there again as I practise the Tai Chi movement 'Spreading one's wings'. She joins me.

Then she rises up on her feet, just as I am doing,

and sinks down again, with her wings still outstretched.

Then suddenly, she is gone. I just manage to catch her in flight, with her tail feathers thrust up for balance.

She descends,

and lands on the water, where she swims like a duck, patiently searching for more fish.
I have finished spreading my wings, and return to my study to fish for inspiration as I continue my writing.

City sky

2012-02-03T20:21:00.000+13:00

I was sad to leave the bach and its magical skies. But look at this: here in the city, the scudding clouds that keep the sun away by day, create patterns of light in the evening.

The wonder of nature is everywhere.

First Fruits Reflections

2012-02-02T09:23:00.001+13:00

Today, February 2, is our First Fruits Festival.
It is exactly half-way between Summer Solstice and Autumn Equinox.
While there is still plenty of light, the darkness is increasing.
This is the time (in the Southern Hemisphere) of the Celtic Festival of Lugnasad, held in honour of the grain god Lugh, who was sacrificed with the reaping of the crop.

The Christian harvest festival of Lammas followed Lugnasad, retaining the age-old flavour of celebration of harvest.
Berries and fruit are abundant now, and the grain is ripe. But for Maori, their staple food the kumara still needed time in the ground, so this was Te Waru, the lean time.

Reflecting on these discrepancies, I am reminded how abundance is still not distributed evenly in our world, and even as I celebrated the fullness of First Fruits, there are many others for whom times are lean.

Happy trees

2012-01-31T18:30:00.000+13:00

The wet summer has made the trees very happy. The hibiscus is particularly bright this year.

and the jacarandas that line the streets running down to the sea

are blossoming profusely, with their beautiful blue.

Magnolias are sending up white spears, that open into fullsome milky cups

and among the native trees, the puriri are full of berries, which makes the tuis very happy

while palm trees are hanging great droops of berries also,

like golden afro hair-cuts.
Yes, even if people complain about all the rain, the trees are certainly rejoicing.

On the water front

2012-01-30T09:30:00.000+13:00

Auckland's water front on a fine day is sparkly and refreshing.

Some come to walk or play on the beach

and once you've got your sun hat on, you can take your time

while others simply sit, and enjoy gazing at the restful slopes of Rangitoto.

Scooping up the sea

2012-01-28T11:04:00.000+13:00

I'm scooping up the sea. That's one of the Tai Chi movements in the sequence I'm doing each morning. It consists of bending low, one foot behind the other, and with crossed hands, scooping and bringing the sea up high until it merges with the air above.

At high tide, with pohutukawa leaves drifting in the water, I enter a dream space.

I'm scooping up my dreams, that drift like brilliant leaves on the surface of the sea.

I'm scooping up waves of tenderness, as I remember talking with little Mira (3 years old) on Skype from China, where she is on a six week visit with her mother.

I'm scooping up surges of satisfaction from completing my tax return yesterday while the rain poured down.

And I'm scooping up gratitude, for this beautiful place where I live beside the sea: gratitude for peace, safety, and the spaciousness of summer.

Full tide Tai Chi

2012-01-26T11:14:00.000+13:00

The tide is as full as it gets. As I do my Tai Chi, I hear the water sloshing up over the nearby boat ramp.

Despite the clouds, and heavy rain forecasts for the south island, the sky still has plenty of blue. The pohutukawa, long past flowering, watches over me from the cliff above,

together with banana palm and the ti - cabbage tree, with its distinctive spiky leaves.

Mother shag, the full-tide visitor, is here once more. She sits patiently, doing her own sequence, which consists of a neck turn to the right,

followed by a neck turn to the left. Then back to the right again. This is her Tai Chi, and we move in unison it seems.

Then she settles down, sitting like a hen, just watching the sea. I don't think she's looking for fish, because she has an alert standing pose for that. I imagine she has a full belly, and is enjoying the peace of the morning.
She reminds me that sometimes enough is enough. I've had a few busy days, tackling income tax, dealing with a computer breakdown just as I had almost finished, attending meetings, and running around town. Yesterday Inland Revenue sent me a letter to say I had a reprieve for another month.
Enough is enough. This is a day to enjoy, for me and mother shag.

Hello summer!

2012-01-23T21:15:00.000+13:00

I couldn't believe it! As I walked down to the jetty this morning, the sun was shining and the sea was blue.

A cold wind blew in from the south, but as I descended to the sea, all was calm. I stood in a patch of morning sun, my gaze drifting out across the blue, as I began my Tai Chi. The tide was in again, and I could hear the lapping of the sea against the shore. As I did 'Opening Arms, expanding chest,' I felt as if the sea was flowing inside me and my lungs were full of blue sky. How different this was from my Tai Chi in the rain, only a day ago!

Different sea birds arrived this morning. No more herons or waders — they are low tide birds. The high tide birds are the shags. The first one arrived and perched on the nearby boat ramp, watching for fish.

The water was so clear. A second shag arrived, and spent a long time drying out her wings, spreading them right out. I too was moving into 'spreading my wings' — well, that's not exactly what it was called, but as I do Tai Chi with the natural world, I find myself giving some of the movements new names.

I didn't photograph the two shags together, because I was in the flow of the movements by then. But at the end I was just in time to catch the second shag, spreading her wings once more, but this time as a prelude to flight.

What variety and change I'm discovering, simply by doing the same practice each morning in the same spot.

PS I took a walk later, and bought fish for my dinner. This felt perfect, after moving in unison to the fish-eaters this morning. I hope the shags had a good feed too.

PPS Some people have had trouble recently, posting comments on blogspot sites. I've removed the word verification, hoping to make it easier for you all. Do let me know if you are still there!

Tai Chi in the rain

2012-01-22T16:05:00.001+13:00

'Be not deterred,' says Dr. Baolin Wu of the Nine Palaces tradition from the White Cloud Monastery of China. 'Always practise your Tai Chi outside, in nature.'
Not only was it raining this morning, but it was also rather cool. But, remembering Dr Wu's words, I resolutely put on a hat and jacket and made my way to the jetty.
There was a certain beauty in the soft mistiness that shrouded the cliffs opposite. Doing the sequence 'Playing with clouds' took on a new meaning. I could feel energy flowing into me as I did my Tai Chi in the rain.

The rain increased, and I moved to this little platform under a spreading pohutukawa tree. This photo was taken on another day, when the tide was in. The tide was well out today, and the sea's colour had drained away. But the platform gave me a little shelter.

Underfoot, little squelches as my bare feet rolled over rain-soaked pohutukawa seeds. On my head, pitter patter of the rain. "The more you focus your attention on your inner warmth, the less you will notice the weather,' says Dr Wu.

It was true. My inner warmth was fueled by the sense of this great tree sheltering me like a mother, giving me her refreshing green energy. I was glad I'd ventured out.
'Being outside in the open air, around trees and plants, will surround you with fresh, lively Qi that can be used to nourish the body,' says Dr Wu.
I'm feeling it. Every day my sense of well-being increases, and doing my Tai Chi through the changes of tide and weather keeps me on my toes, aware of the constant flux and flow in this wonderful environment where I live.

Tai Chi by the tide

2012-01-19T17:35:00.003+13:00

The tide is further out each morning now, as I do my Tai Chi by the sea. Rock pools have formed everywhere, as the sea's edge recedes.

A black oyster catcher stalks the edge, watched by a lone gull.

'Stagnant water no good for Tai Chi,' says Dr Wu of the Nine Palaces tradition.
'Does this count as stagnant?' I ask, and hear him say, 'Tide OK. Tide moving all the time, even though appears still.'
Ah- that's good.

Certainly the seabirds are gathering now that the water has drawn back. I can hear molluscs popping and imagine a wealth of tasty morsels just beneath the surface.

Prince Heron hears them too. He stalks elegantly across the rocks to a large pool, claiming it for himself. There he begins a graceful dance: one leg forward, stirring the mud;

second leg forward, stirring a little more,

then spearing downwards to retrieve his trophy.
I'm moving into 'Twisting waist and swing arms' as he does 'Lifting legs and stir mud', and it seems we are doing our Tai Chi together.

Then, who should appear from the right, but Princess Heron, proceeding with perfect deportment to her own pool. There she begins her own, 'Lifting legs, stir mud',

followed by 'Darting beak, find fish'.
Together the three of us do our movements, each in our own little pool of water or light. I am carried into timelessness, and the sky becomes extra wide.

'Flowing water cleanses and brings good fortune and opportunities to those who are nearby,' says Dr. Wu. I am reminded that receding tides expose new choices. Sometimes I complain when I'm not feeling at full surge, or when my writing process reveals snags, flotsam and jetsam, but just look at what is revealed when the flow pulls back.
The herons are harvesting their good fortune, and I am about to harvest mine, with a morning of creative work which, I am confident, will turn dissatisfaction into delight.

Mystery solved

2012-01-17T09:42:00.000+13:00

Shall I reveal what I discovered, or leave it as a mystery?
I can't resist telling you.
Yesterday I was helping with a Retreat Day, called Setting the Compass (for the new year). It was held in a beautifully renovated church hall, and I had been invited to create a ritual as part of the day. As I wandered around outside, getting the feel of the garden and how it might be used, what should I find but another beautiful 'boat', undulating like a little wave, there on the path. And just like the ones I found when I did my Tai Chi by the sea, it had captured some little shafts that I realised were stamens.

'I wonder where this one has come from?', and then I looked up and saw this beauty: a frosted flower with a vibrant curl of luscious petal, about to fall. 'It's a palm tree!'

But not just any palm tree. I looked up further, and look at this: several rows of cheeky little green bananas, perkily lifting to the sky above, seeking out the sun.
I did rather like to think of the fronds as little boats, that had mysteriously sailed in on the wind and rain. But the truth has equal charm: the flower petals of the banana palm, flying freely down to earth: banana boats, perhaps?
As I contemplated setting my compass for 2012, sailing lightly and imaginatively somehow became part of it.

Gift of the Sea

2012-01-15T10:22:00.001+13:00

After enjoying my Tai Chi by the sea, I noticed something on the ground. It looked like a sculpture, a wave of the sea.

Then I found this little vessel, like a tiny raft to sail the waves in.

And another one. Such beautiful gifts from the sea - peelings from some unknown plant, perhaps a leaf frond or a petal, who knows? - and containing these bleached leaves. This is exactly as I found them: a blessing from nature, a perfect discovery after my first Tai Chi by the sea.
Such wonder is always there in the natural world, but sometimes we huddle inside and forget to venture out. When I do, even if the weather is wild and windy, I always find something. I'm always glad.

Tai Chi by the sea

2012-01-13T17:31:00.005+13:00

Tai Chi is best done outside. The whole point of this practice, according to Chinese teachers, is to unite with nature. Dr. Wu, of the Nine Palaces tradition, says that morning is a good time.
At the bach, I had found a good spot, where I felt close to the trees, and yet was sheltered from the wind. As I did my Tai Chi, a tui would come and perch on a nearby branch, or keruru would fly overhead.
Now I'm in town, I needed to find a new spot. And so this morning, the first day without rain this year, I ventured down to the jetty.

Would it be too windy? Dr. Wu says 'A gentle breeze is good, but too much wind will disrupt the chi.' I found a spot that seemed sheltered enough.
The tide was full, and the wind was washing the waves in to shore. 'Keep away from still water,' says Dr Wu. 'Flowing water is good.'

This water was flowing all right. The sound of sloshing waves entered my body as I moved into 'Scooping up the sea', and 'Playing with waves'.

The expanse of sky entered my lungs as I continued with 'Playing with clouds', and 'Spreading one's wings'. I felt I was moving high and free as I did 'Flying like a goose', and I imagined night had fallen as I found myself 'Carrying the Moon.'
By the time I had finished, and gathered all this inspiration into my belly, I felt that the elements had taken residence inside me, giving me all I needed for the day ahead.

I'm still learning this practice, with the help of the video on the website www.taichi18.com. And I'm loving it. My new year resolution is to practice outside as much as I can, and in this way to allow the inspiration of the seasons to flow freely within my body.

Sweet parting

2012-01-10T11:16:00.000+13:00

The holiday is over, and I have returned. But I'm remembering the blazing skies of my last night at the bach.

The rain clouds, that never departed, did scatter a little that evening, and there were just enough of them to create more magical skies.

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.
Rabindranath Tagore

What the Empress dropped (2)

2012-01-08T17:10:00.000+13:00

I noticed that Madame Kereru dropped something else, each time she visited. Yes, she tears off a whole bunch of kawakawa in the course of her feeding, and drops it on the ground.
You could say that she's an untidy eater.
But there's more to it than this, perhaps.
In Maori tradition, it is often said that the forest birds shared berries with the kiore, the little Polynesian rat.

It is said, for example, that when miro berries were ripe, the kiore refrained from tree-climbing, for this was also the time when the birds fed on the miro. The kiore would stay on the ground, eating the berries that fell down while the birds fed in the trees above.

And so - is the Empress simply following an old tradition by leaving some for the kiore?
And does she know that the kiore is now pretty much extinct on the mainland, and has been replaced by the larger and much less friendly Norwegian rat?
I guess not (sigh).

But do not accuse her of being an untidy eater. She is an altruistic empress, and likes to share her food.

What the Empress dropped

2012-01-06T19:14:00.000+13:00

In the late afternoon, this is what I found: a feather on a fern.

It was hard to photograph, but I captured it at last.

What a poetic gift from the Empress, leaving her fluffy feather perched so exquisitely.

I think of Hildegarde von Bingen's music, called 'A Feather on the Breath of God'.

The Empress reminds me so tread lightly into 2012, to remember balance, to maintain poise.

As I was taking the photos, I heard a whooshing of wings, and there she was again, perching in the kawakawa just above my head, showing me her white breast and purple-green top feathers. Thank you Empress, for your gracious message from the skies.
May we all go lightly into the new year.

Grasses in the rain

2012-01-04T10:37:00.001+13:00

As I walk to the beach in the rain, my attention is drawn to the grasses

the reeds alongside the swamp,

and wildflowers everywhere.

There are clusters of clover here and there, both red and white.

On the dunes, seed heads are full

and the spinafex is ready to release its tumbling, spinning wheels.

Usually by this time of the year the sun has dried everything out, but with all the rain it's as if the grasses have had an extra burst of growth. Summer feels fertile this year.

Every new year I read my journal for the previous year, and contemplate what I wish to seed in the new year, and grow to fruition. Taking solitary time at the bach is perfect for this musing and wondering.
I wonder what you are seeding as 2012 begins. Whatever it is, may it be as full of life and promise as these grasses and wildflowers in the rain.

When the mozzies are biting

2012-01-03T12:49:00.000+13:00

When the mosquitoes are biting, having penetrated every nook and cranny, and even finding their way through screens and mosquito net,

then you don't mind that the wind is now following the sultry days and the rainy days, and is shaking the tops of the trees, loosening out their hair, and sending debris flying,

because you know that wind and mozzies just don't mix, and that although it's supposed to be summer holidays and no doubt many people are complaining at these pesky blasts,

you are smiling to yourself, because now you can settle down with your books, and lay down the fly swat, and stop worrying about batting off these zooming little vampires. And so you give thanks for the wind, and breath a sigh of relief.

New Year gifts

2012-01-02T16:21:00.001+13:00

There are 72 steps from the carport to the bach. Must have been too much for the three wise men of Christmas, because I didn't catch a glimpse of them. The path way was covered with weeds, and overgrowth was encroaching from the sides, so that might have been an extra deterrent.
But two strong men were there - my son, and his friend from India, whose family is across the other side of the world. The friend came to stay at the bach last Christmas when he was newly separated and having a hard time. It was a pleasure to make room for a guest around the table, and this year when returned,(much happier) he felt like family.

Yesterday, on new year's day, the two strong men returned. They wanted to begin the year by saying thank you to the bach. They knew that, what with setbacks like a broken wrist, I hadn't been able to keep up with the maintenance this year. So they'd come to help. That's why the steps in the photo at the top can now be seen, and why this pathway along the downstairs room looks so neat.

And why the little cabin above the bach can be seen (rather than the jungle that stood in front of it,

and why the garden, which was a wilderness of broad beans, with long grass all around, now has edges again, with the broad beans all dug in, and the new plants able to see the light. And why we had a fine meal last night, which I cooked for them in gratitude, with a big dish of broad beans straight from the garden.

Giving and receiving. Last Christmas was the time for giving. This year has begun with receiving. The wheels of life keep turning and bringing exactly what is needed, making this a happy new year already. And I hope it is for all of you, dear blog readers.

PS A big thank you to Hilary, who prompted me to change to pop-up comments, which makes things easier if you are on certain servers. So if you haven't commented before, please give it a go. I love to know you are out there, and that my posts have 'landed', wherever you are.

Being on tank water

2011-12-30T18:08:00.000+13:00

Being on tank water means you don't mind when the rain sweeps across the country, saturating everything in sight,

and even though it's summer holidays when most people are looking for the sun, you just laugh because you can hear the water gurgling into the tank, and the sound is music to your ears,

because it's just a small tank, and with up to six people here over Christmas, the water level was going down pretty fast, and you were starting to save slops for the garden and restrict your showers,

but now as constant rain drenches the hills and sweeps up the valley, it's time for delicious rain-water showers once more, which soften the skin and hair,

and to rejoice in the greenness all around as the trees drink happily,

the carrots stand up straight again,

and the newly planted capsicums are looking lively, knowing that although they were planted rather late, they have waxing moon energy on their side as well as rain-saturated soil,

and you know the rhythm of being close to nature, taking nothing for granted, and giving thanks for the generous gift from the skies. When you are on tank water.

The empress comes to visit

2011-12-29T11:10:00.001+13:00

It's silent here at the bach. No longer is little Mira's bright voice to be heard, saying 'I want to look it', or 'Why, Granny?', or 'I like it.' But in the silence, the empress—known to Maori as kereru (wood pigeon)—has come to visit.

She's as large as a small hen, and yet she perches in the kawakawa tree with such grace, lifting her head between mouthfuls,

then twisting and turning to find the best way to swoop down on more kawakawa berries.

They look like little candles - 'on a christmas tree' - said Mira, when we were walking beside them yesterday.

The empress finds some interesting angles, using her large wings or tail to help her balance. In the silence here, I was able to approach quite close. After a good feed, she flew away, but as soon as I started writing about her, I heard a whoosh of wings, and here she is back again.

I can see her through the window. She feeds so patiently. It's a lot of work and balancing for each little seed head, but for the empress, feeding is unhurried.
She reminds me to slow down, maintain balance, and take my time. Thank you empress, for your gracious presence.

The flax Christmas tree

2011-12-25T11:47:00.000+13:00

Here at the bach, life is simple. There are no shops close by, and we use what is close at hand.

Mira requested a flax Christmas tree. So, armed with 3 books on flax weaving, I came out the the bach to see what I could create before the family arrived.

The black metal chimney looked like a tree trunk, so I started weaving a series of 'streamers') well they are called 'headbands in the book, but this was about improvising), and then I found a way of hanging them and joining them together.

Ferns made a bright green base

And then Mira arrived and we added angels and bird and other decorations from the Christmas bag,

And the gold star and baskets at the base, and then I learned to weave a basket to leave out for Santa to fill.

We are having a happy Christmas morning, here at the bach. The sun is shining, the tuis are singing, and we are together. Happy Christmas to you all, wherever you are.

Solstice Solitude

2011-12-22T17:44:00.000+13:00

It's summer solstice, and I am having my favourite kind of summer solstice day. I have been quietly wandering the stream and beach, picking up fern fronds, pohutukawa blossoms, and dandelions, and finding a place to make an image for the solstice. This is an old practice of mine, and this year I am blessed with a day of solitude before visitors arrive.
The birds have been singing to me as I wander and gather — grey warblers, tuis, welcome swallows, and a kingfisher.
I've watched bees swarming around the pohukukawa trees, creating buzzing halos. I was so happy to see them, because bees are becoming scarcer these days. I fantasised about the pohutukawa honey that might soon appear on the local stalls. I tried to photograph the bees, but they dived so fast into the blossoms, burying themselves in those crimson tendrils, that I had trouble catching them.

If you look carefully, you might spot an ecstatic bee in the very centre of the picture, rolling around in the flower.

Here's the second sun I made on the sand - you'll see that the background is black because here on the west coast the beaches are made of ironsand.
Wherever you are, in northern or southern hemisphere, I wish you gladness at solstice, and a moment to pause and enjoy.

Te Henga magic

2011-12-21T20:36:00.001+13:00

I packed, I shopped, I did dozens of tasks, I drove through dense traffic, and finally I arrived at the bach.
Once here, I cleaned, unpacked, cooked, and finally came to a standstill - or rather a sitstill - when I looked out the window and caught a quality of light that makes the casements of my heart fly open.

I slowed down

Birds twittered in the trees

and I became still

calm,

and awestruck at the beauty of nature, doing her simple evening thing that she has done for generations.
How could I have forgotten?
How could I have stayed away so long?
I felt as if I had entered a holy presence, here on the eve of the solstice.
May you too be granted a still moment to take in the wonder of nature, whether you are in the wintery northern hemisphere or here in the southern hemisphere summer.

Pohutukawas in the city

2011-12-20T10:49:00.000+13:00

The city is ablaze with the flowering of our traditional Christmas tree, the pohutukawa.

The roadside verges are full of young trees, in the flush of their first flowering.

Others have grown tall and skinny,

reaching to the sky with their bright offerings,

And some are small and straggly. The main thing is, they are everywhere! and people are still planting them. Some of the huge trees are magnificent, but it wasn't safe to stop and photograph them as I drove around the city today.

Red is such a positive, life-affirming colour. Even though the weather has been rather grey and rainy, our brightly flowering Christmas trees bring good cheer to the city.

And sometimes summer looks like summer

2011-12-19T11:47:00.000+13:00

The rain has cleared and the sun is peeping out behind the clouds. From my balcony I look out to the pohutukawa, ablaze with blossom.

The flame tree that stands just to the left, is now covered in green leaves. All winter it flared with scarlet flowers, but in summer the fire retreats and the pohutukawa picks up the theme. This photo was taken 3 weeks ago, and if you click on it you'll see the tui that perched in the uppermost branches, where it sang insistently, all day long. It was probably waiting patiently for the pohutukawa to blossom, for now it is feasting happily on the sweet nectar.

The scallop shell was a present from my granddaughter, the little yellow flowers from my meditation centre, and the pohutukawa 'petals' also gifted from a friend. Together, they make a little icon to encourage the sun to shine, and to stay awhile.

Sometimes summer looks like autumn

2011-12-17T20:04:00.000+13:00

I picked up red pohutukawa leaves from the beach, sprinkled some jade plant leaves around, and placed a little yellow flower in the centre. Then I realised how autumnal it looked. But the casualness is about summer, and the warmth was certainly there on that day, even though it's danced back into the corners again.

Peony opening

2011-12-15T22:27:00.000+13:00

I can't resist photographing the peonies as they open. The buds are so fat and mysterious. This is one of the three I was given, that hasn't yet opened.

This is the other one, unfolding her skirts

and the next day, puffing them out

and here's that tight bud above, several days later, just hanging loose,

and the third one, starting to open.

I wondered if any poets have ever sung in praise of the peony, and voila! I found this exquisite haiku from Basho, the Zen poet of the 17th century. Across time and culture, he captures the wonder of the peony perfectly:

The bee emerging

from deep within the peony

departs reluctantly

Moon, melia and mulberries

2011-12-12T11:45:00.000+13:00

Fullness is gathering, as summer solstice approaches. Three signs of abundance presented themselves to me today: the swelling moon, the melia trees which frame it, and are now in full leaf,

and mulberries, a gift from my friends' garden. I've sung 'Here we go round the mulberry bush' so many times, but had never seen one till now. These sweet berries were left over after the wax eyes and blackbirds had eaten their fill.
Last night when the moon was full, there was a total eclipse, visible from Auckland at 3.32 am - well supposedly, but the sky was thick with cloud.

Nursery rhymes are full of 'rounds'; not just the mulberry bush but also others such as:
Sally go round the sun
Sally go round the moon
Sally go round the chimney pots
On a Sunday afternoon

And so, as I eat mulberries one by one, I reflect on the cycles of life: moon waxing and waning, shining and eclipsing; the melia that was bare through winter, then flowering, and now leafy and full, and the berries that have appeared so quickly in my friend's fertile garden; the little child that I once was, listening to nursery rhymes, and the grandmother that I now am, passing them on as I sing them in turn.

Why does seaweed smell?

2011-12-10T15:57:00.001+13:00

Can you remember the total absorption of playing at the edge of the sea? Today was our first day at the local beach. I played with leaves, making an image to use on my new solstice card, and the little one discovered a new game: collecting seaweed. There were several different kinds: kelp, a long straggly black one, green clusters, a little sea lettuce, and neptune's necklace (bladder wort). She collected them all.

She's so proud of growing up, and being able to do things she couldn't do last year:

'I'm bigger now, and soon my head will bump the sky, and then the sky will be broken.'

Everything is fresh with a little one: the ideas, the play, and the conversation. After filling the big bucket with seaweed, she wanted to take it home.
'OK. I'll find a plastic bag, and daddy can wash it and put it on the garden.'
'But I want to take these ones (2 special kinds) into my room.'
'That's not a good idea because it will smell.'
'Why?'
'Because that's what seaweed does, especially when it gets old.'
'Why?'
All ideas for definitive answers will be gratefully received!

Gifts came my way

2011-12-08T20:39:00.000+13:00

It's been a day of receiving - from appreciative people whom I've helped in various ways during the year. Today they brought gifts. This one has never crossed my threshold before, and I wasn't sure what it was. It's a peony, just peeping out of its tight folds, and preparing to open.

I was gifted three of them, in this beautiful bouquet.

Then someone brought me the first pohutukawa blossom, which I added to an arrangement I was making on a white plate. The fine 'petals' were already shedding themselves over my table, as they do, and I rather liked the way they showed up on the white.

I was also gifted these little hand-made flax creations: a fish, on the left, and a flower on the right. It is so tightly enfolded, that it reminds me of the peony.
The thoughtfulness of others is such a pleasure to receive. Now I'm starting to make my own Xmas/Solstice cards, ready to send to the special people whom I want to appreciate. Giving and receiving: it flows on like a river, all part of the joy and openness of summer.

Cornucopia of carrots

2011-12-06T16:29:00.000+13:00

Seduced by abundance at the farmers' market on Sunday, I bought a big bag of new seasons carrots. Bunches of coriander lay nearby, and I took one, remembering a special recipe: carrot and coriander soup.

I haven't made this special soup for a year or two. Somehow I never had the right ingredients at the same time. But now, on the wet Sunday afternoon, was the perfect time.

Or so I thought. I searched high and low, through recipe books and folders, but the recipe was nowhere to be found. Never mind, I'll do it from memory, I decided. A bit of onion, lots of chopped carrots, sautee and cook in stock, and at the end add a big bunch of cooked coriander.

At the last minute, I remembered a forgotten ingredient: a little swirl of cream at the end. I didn't have any cream, but I added a scoop of herb quark, a new food that I'm enjoying. The soup was perfect: tasty and textured, filling and warming.

It was a cornucopia of carrots that I'd brought home. I remembered another old favourite: carrot and coconut salad. So I set to work, grating up more carrots, and adding a couple of handfuls of dessicated coconut. I can't recall where I learned this trick, but it's a magic combination. The coconut stops the carrot from turning brown, and it also adds texture. With a handful of chopped parsley (also bought from from the market), I had what I needed.

With a good stir, and a dash of olive oil, the carrot salad was ready to put into the fridge, where it will keep for days, and will become tastier with time.
Will I turn orange from imbibing so many carrots? Will my eyes be able to see in the dark? I'll let you know.

Came a wet Sunday . . .

2011-12-04T16:37:00.000+13:00

What can be done with a wet Sunday? If it falls in the middle of winter, staying in bed with a good book is an appealing option. But when it's the start of summer, the season beckons. I began with the first option, but then remembered the farmers' market in Grey Lynn.

Everything is fresh from the earth on these stalls. You get to meet the growers, and the vegetables have the season's rain still on their leaves. This lettuce was crunchy and green,

the courgettes straight off the plant,

and the eggs newly laid. Everything is organic, and no middle traders are involved. The money goes straight to the growers, and only one road trip is needed. Economy all round.

And so, on this wet Sunday, I made a delicious salad of fresh raw vegetables and herbs, zinging with life and abundance. As I sat and ate my lunch, it felt as if the sun had come out.

The colour of leaves

2011-12-01T19:53:00.000+13:00

Yes, I know. this looks like an autumn post. But I assure you, even though spring has now tipped into early summer, this is the season for colourful pohutukawa (and other) leaves. They drop to the ground in many colours. The green one has had its colour bleached out by the fall of another leaf on top of it. Last summer, the little fairy and I played a lot with pohutukawa leaves.

Today, we went down to the jetty and gathered all the leaves we could find. This is where spring comes in: the youthful season, the season of play. And so she wanted to sit down and make arrangements of leaves, all over her frilly skirt, and down her leg.

I love the vibrant colours, and so did she. We are going to be together again for Christmas Day and she has requested a 'flax Christmas tree'. My creativity is stimulated by her challenges. A flax Christmas tree sounds pretty good to me, and I'm getting some ideas about how it can be made. Watch this space!

Garden fairy

2011-11-25T16:35:00.000+13:00

The garden fairy came to visit. She was very intent on caring for my plants with the little plastic watering can that I keep nearby. I don't water the jade plants very often, but the garden fairy made sure they were not missed out.

Then she moved on to the 'Victoria Blue' salvia. I thought it had died earlier in the year, but after being cut back it's enjoying a spring revival, and the flowers are a glorious colour. Having learned all the basic hues of the paintbox, the fairy now discusses with me whether the colour is blue, or purple, or violet, and any of the shades in between, such as 'bluish purple' or 'purply blue'.

The other jade plant just to the left of the salvia was also included.

As was the fragrant daphne bush. It was left on my doorstep by a dear friend after a loss that shook our family some weeks ago. Now the flowering is over, but it still needs care. As the fairy focussed on her watering task, the sun made magical patterns on the tiles.

Then she moved on to the big pot, in which the primrose has finished and a new parsley plant is looking rather wan. I'd rather given up on this pot, but the fairy leaves nothing untended,

even the other pot to the right, in which the plants are struggling.
How lucky I am to be reminded of the importance of tending, in this season of loss. The matriarch of the family has died, at 95, but the young one picks up the watering can and does what needs to be done. In her innocence, she brings hope of renewal.

In sacred space

2011-11-19T21:05:00.000+13:00

I've just returned from an evening and a day in sacred space, teaching The Art of Ritual to twelve lovely women who live an hour and a half north of Auckland. They are very connected to nature, and their hearts are open to learning and connecting.
Here are the symbols for water, that I placed in the west of our circle.

Here is part of the setting for fire in the north, with blazing Californian poppies gathered from the garden. (Later the women made their own symbols, but as I don't have their permission I'm just showing my own)

And here is air in the east, with a fan, a little vase of pheasant feathers, and a tiny pink wooden dragonfly from Vietnam.

I didn't manage to get a photo of the bean and courgette seedlings for earth in the south, but here is my personal symbol to resource me through the coming weeks.

Kawakawa features prominently in Maori healing. It's also associated with death. I am grieving the passing of my dear mother-in-law, whom I met a year after my marriage 48 years ago, and who remained my friend even though the marriage later ended. At the same time this season is regenerating me. The kawakawa leaf represents a hope for integration of opposites: death and new life.

Being with this group of women, who have come together to celebrate the seasons through the cycle of one year, has been regenerating, fulfilling and hopeful.

The happiness tree

2011-11-16T20:04:00.000+13:00

Have you ever seen a plant that instantly made you feel happy?
Today, I did.

The street where I go to see my hairdresser is full of gardens. One tree stood out today as I drove down the winding road to her house.

Yes, it's a bottlebrush. One after another, there they were, in their crimson glory, bursting out in all directions,

bristling with life, pushing their noses to the sky as if to catch the scent of the clouds.

Next month, the pohutukawas will be in bloom, but for now, their Australian cousins are filling the gap with their exuberant red, positivity and joy.

Thank you to all those gardeners who planted these happy trees.

Other people's gardens

2011-11-13T20:19:00.000+13:00

I'm so lucky to live in a neighbourhood of colourful gardens. I always walk to the shops, which gives me time to delight in the spring flowers, with their glorious colours. This line of yellow and red roses has been planted in front of a little white house, and it looks spectacular.

Further down the street, I pass a purple koromiko in full flower. It's a native plant that I've always loved. The new leaf tips are a good remedy for diarrohea, and Maori families used to send them off to the troops in the second world war, to combat desert dysentry.

A few steps further on, and an intoxicating sweet scent has me gazing upwards at these yellow flowers - mimosa perhaps?

And finally, before I reach the library, I pause in front of this exquisite rose.
Now that I live in an apartment, I don't have my own garden any more. And so I especially appreciate what others have created.
Thank you gardeners, for all your hard work, and the pleasure that you give to passersby.

Spring fairy

2011-11-09T20:33:00.000+13:00

It was Guy Fawkes, and while crackers resounded through the neighbourhood, the little one's parents were in Wellington, celebrating their wedding anniversary. I was in charge, sleeping over for the first time.

It seemed like a nice thing to do, once the dishes were clean, to mop the floor. The little spring fairy insisted on doing her part.

What a zealous little housekeeper! She was unstoppable.

And once the floor was done, she took a sponge and wiped every surface in sight.

Not missing the corners or the awkward places, but covering every patch of floor and wall.
After a shower and a story, I tucked her up in bed and, with a kiss goodnight, she drifted off to sleep. The crackers continued to bang and pop all around, but the spring fairy was happily lost in the land of dreams.

Spring surprise

2011-11-05T20:32:00.000+13:00

Have you ever discovered something beautiful right under your nose?

The big palm trees at the apartment block where I live are flowering. I don't recall them doing this last year, but then again, they are in a corner of the garden where I don't usually venture.

My neighbour said, 'Have you seen the yellow flowers?'

'No.'

I pass them each day as I walk down the stairwell. My eyes however, are focussed on the stairs as they turn to the left, and I had failed to look right. Had I done so, this is what I would have seen.

What glorious, fulsome bunches they are.

They begin feathery, and then fill out, like ripe fruit.

From now on, I'll be watching, fascinated to see what colour berries they produce, and how their cycle unfolds.

It's good to keep an eye on the steps, especially after having a fall. It's also good to remember to stop and look out, through the glass panels of the stairwell, and into the hidden garden; and to walk around to the other side sometimes, and feast on views like this one. How could I have missed such magic!

Beltane the spring festival: October 31

2011-10-30T19:58:00.000+13:00

It's peak greening time - halfway between spring equinox and summer solstice. Everything is growing apace. The nikaus are brightly spreading their fans,

pohutukawas are pushing out new, light green foliage,

and everywhere, the cabbage trees are flowering.

A profuse flowering is said to be a forerunner to a long, hot summer.

And in the bush, the hen and chicken fern is putting out lots of little babies. Each 'chicken' will grow into a whole new fern. Beltane is associated with procreation and fertility, and that's exactly what nature is demonstrating.
I invite you to wear a sprig of green in your buttonhole tomorrow, October 31, and celebrate high spring.

Street Flowers

2011-10-28T21:14:00.000+13:00

To walk around the streets is to be greeted by flowers. I love yellow roses, and these ones, just popping out of their buds, are sheer delight.

A corokio hedge has been newly cut, but its flowers are determined to bloom.

I love their little star-like forms, chattering away in the hedge.

From yellow to red, and I spot puriri flowers peeping out from high branches

a flame tree, now sporting new leaves as well as its vibrant scarlet flowers,

and in one of the street gardens, gladioli flaming on their stalks.

In the book by Maoshing Ni on Secrets of Longevity, I came across a page called 'Stress-Busting Flowers'. She describes the effect of flowers on a person's moods, and declares that colourful flowers combat stress. A study showed that people typing beside a bright bouquet were able to relax better than people who sat beside foliage alone.

As I came down the hill towards home, I passed the softness of camellias,

and finally, as I came in the gate, here were two tall trees enjoying their pink frilly leafing time. I can't remember the name of these trees because I think of them as 'truffula' trees - as in Dr Seuss's book The Lorax. As long as the truffula trees are thriving, the world is doing OK.
And as long as the streets are blooming with such exuberance, I am uplifted.

Wildflowers

2011-10-25T10:39:00.000+13:00

At the bach, I'm pulling out some wild flowers - onion weed mainly - and delighting in others. This little blue flower is growing down the driveway, making me stop to admire the intensity of the blue (the photo does not do the colour justice). Does anyone know what it is? The leaves are like those of a bulb.

The garden is fringed with a tangle of forgetmenots. Every year they appear in their thousands, together with

clambering nasturtiums. I pick the smaller leaves and the best of the flowers to brighten up my salads.

Meanwhile, the broad bean flowers peep out shyly.

I study them for signs of some tender young bean pods appearing, but there's no sign as yet. And so for now I enjoy them, along with all the other little flowers that have popped up unbidden. Spring is so full of surprises.

Each flower is a soul opening out to nature.
—Emerson

Spring combat

2011-10-23T18:08:00.000+13:00

Spring sets the birds a-fighting.

I hear the urgent flutter of wings, and there they are, up in the air, flying furiously at each other.

I would have thought that there was plenty of territory and plenty of food, but these young blackbirds would not agree. You can see which one 'won'; it's standing there very firmly while the other one stalks off. (Tonight the All Blacks play France in the final of the rugby world cup. Maybe the birds are catching the mood?)

Or are they a young male and female, and he is the spurned would-be mate? Whatever the story, spring is not just blossoms and beauty, it's also about winning, wildness, and wantonness.

Blossom

2011-10-20T14:53:00.000+13:00

As I walk the streets, I discover blossom abounding everywhere.

Blossoming branches are painting the sky like fluffy brushes.

Blossom is frothing out of bushes and on to the pavement

sending its fragrance into the air and attracting a myriad of bees

Like spring snow it covers every twig and branch in a riotous celebration of life

Joyful, abundant flowering wherever I go.

Blossom. What a beautiful word. It goes back to Old English 'blostma' and seems to carry within it an explosion of life. I looked up some blossom poems, but the poets (John Donne, Shakespeare . . . ) see blossoms as an occasion to mourn the ephemeral nature of life. And so I offer this line from Hafiz, which reflects my blossom--pleasure more accurately:

The garden is breathing out the air of Paradise today (Hafiz)

Brightness returning

2011-10-18T20:09:00.001+13:00

In the sharp light of spring, I'm seeing things I didn't notice before. Today the bromeliads were shining in the light, their centres red and bright.

They are happily drinking, having caught plenty of rain in their centres.

This one shows the contrast of bright green, with the red new leaves opening in the middle.

And others, like this, have dull red exteriors and lively centres.

I've passed the bromeliads so many times as I walk down the driveway, and they've seemed a bit rough and battered, not really worthy of interest. But today, with the right combination of sun and rain, they were full of life.
I'm feeling that way myself, as my broken wrist gradually strengthens, my writing is surging ahead, and I'm becoming fit once more. Spring is on my side!

Leafing time (2)

2011-10-11T20:27:00.000+13:00

The magnolia, that I've been watching putting out its buds, has now flowered. The next phase has been leafing. So many trees put out blossoms on bare branches, but leaves need to follow, for it's the leaves that supply energy to the tree and allow the cycle of life to continue.

The leaves on the oaks on the low road have been slow to appear. Here are the first tiny green shoots, assertions of life amidst the bare branches.

A little higher up the road, and leafing is more advanced.

And higher still, the green is brilliant and forming a full canopy.

My heart sings as I watch this greening, this brightness, and this assertion of new life.

When you finally allow yourself to trust joy and embrace it, you will find you dance with everything.—Emmanuel.

Leafing time

2011-10-06T19:33:00.000+13:00

Spring growth is accelerating. This is the melia tree coming into leaf, so delicately.

Two weeks ago it was showing little leaf buds only.

And the flame tree makes me smile, in the way it is putting out just one little leaf cluster - you can see it to the right of the flowers. It looked like this two weeks ago.

And today, here is the leaf cluster, a little more spread out, and a brighter green. It's on the eastern side, where the tree catches the morning sun. Maybe that's why this twig has a head start.

On my balcony, this succulent has shot up a stem with buds on it. I'm watching to see what will unfold.

Spring is such a joyful season, full of surprises, and so very alive.

The mere sense of living is joy enough—Emily Dickinson

Celebration planting

2011-09-30T18:28:00.000+13:00

Just after I had the plaster cut off my arm, I walked down the street past a plant shop. This bright splash of colour - a polyanthus - caught my eye, and I thought, I must have that to celebrate!

Then I saw the brick-red pansy with its large cheerful face, and took that as well.

I made room in the big planter pot on my deck, and discovered as I was digging that the last of the hyacinths is now starting to bloom.

And so they are all clustered together, with the little viola I planted some time ago in the middle. This is my celebration pot, expressing my joy at being two-handed once more. I can now do all those little tasks like fastening a necklace, washing my hair, reading a newspaper without using a table, and best of all, when the little one comes round, I can clap my hands and do pat-a-cake with her.

From the tree tops

2011-09-29T09:52:00.000+13:00

The holiday park where we stayed in KeriKeri is surrounded by a mix of native bush and Australian gums.

The gums are mature, and magnificent. Their bark has peeled long ago and the trunks are smooth and white, like new skin.
In the morning, as we were eating our breakfast outside in the sun, we heard the call of the shining cuckoo, coming from high in the tree tops.

This cuckoo, the pipiwharauroa (meaning 'the long journey' in Maori), is the traditional messenger of spring, telling everyone to start planting. It migrates to the western edge of the Pacific in winter and when it returns its high pitched song brings the return of life and growth.

My arm felt rather like those gum trees over the last 6 weeks, encased as it was in its stiff bark. But two days ago it was set free. I was surprised to discover how tender and sore my wrist was after the plaster had been sawn off. It feels like a new leaf, still soft and without much movement, folded back on itself.
Even so, I feel I've been set free, and when I heard the shining cuckoo yesterday, back here in the city, a thrill raced through me at the sound of its happy song.

Those small touches

2011-09-27T17:35:00.000+13:00

Our family travelled north to KeriKeri over the weekend, to visit our ailing 95 year old elder. She always loved her garden, but since being in a Rest Home has no plants to tend. We stayed in a 'tourist flat' where the new owners are tending their huge property with great love and attention. They've planted little explosions of spring colour amongst the trees. Here is the bird of paradise, which little Mira (3) calls the 'tui flower', noting that it was probably very sharp to touch (it was).

Here's a fresh basket of alyssum, tucked into a corner on the deck.

A pot of lobelia on a table. . .

And primroses, spaced out along the drive.

Our little one loved the place, with its 'stepping stones' (a new word), and the punga edges, which are perfect for a small one to borrow some extra height from. She didn't know the word for 'I'm taller than you', when she hopped up on the bench beside the deck, so she said, 'I'm older'.
Not really!
Here we were as a family, with ages ranging from 3 to 95, enjoying being together. Our elder has a collection of little ceramic and fabric frogs of all shapes and sizes. She even used to have big ones (wooden) that lived in her garden. With the frogs to share, she related beautifully to her little great-great-granddaughter.
Out hosts at the holiday park were friendly, the Rest Home was just across the road, and all those little touches of spring colour in the environment made it a welcoming place to stay.

Jade plant in spring

2011-09-23T09:44:00.000+12:00

Here we are, between blossoming and leafing. As I wait for the leaves to appear on the trees all around me, my attention is drawn to the jade plant on my balcony. Its leaves are brightening, and the new growth is bright yellow, with red tips.

I think of butterfly wings opening. . .

or a fresh young face, cheerful and innocent - open to life and the new season.

Anything simple always interests me—David Hockney

Seeds sprouting

2011-09-21T20:30:00.002+12:00

Sometimes I forget that I've carefully planted some seeds - that is, until they brightly sprout. This morning I received this magazine in the post - the spring issue of Organic NZ.

And inside was this article that I sent them many months earlier. It's an excerpt from my latest book, 'Dancing with the Seasons', and includes photos taken at the bach last spring. You may have already seen some of them on my blog.
I've been feeling a bit jaded lately, what with this heavy cast on my left arm, not being able to drive or get out to the bach, and a touch of end-of-season flu. But seeing the sprouting of these seeds reminded me that when hard work has been put in, it does result in sprouting, greening and new life. And in turn, that cheers me up and brightens my day.
PS It's a great magazine. Here's the link if you want to check it out: http://nz.zinio.com/browse/publications/index.jsp;jsessionid=434CCA0C0D934BD84B4017B5CD303575.ns101-e01?prnt=cat1960018&productId=500609940&categoryId=cat1960078

My friendly neighbourhood

2011-09-16T19:32:00.001+12:00

I live in a friendly neighbourhood. If someone has a surplus, they share it with others. My breakfast grapefruit is from a box- full that a neighbour up the road puts outside his house each year.

Other people create gardens on the street. Here's one, planted with new spring plants, brightening up the walk on the steepest part of the hill.

I give thanks to the unknown neighbours each time I pass by, on my way to the bus stop.

And, if I had a dog, I would have helped myself to these biscuits which were kindly offered outside someone else's gate. I love the sign:
'Free to all deserving canines!! Help yourself to a handful. There is nothing wrong with them - they just didn't suit our Toby's delicate constitution!'
I don't know these neighbours, but I'm glad to live amongst them.

Evening magic

2011-09-13T13:43:00.000+12:00

The sunsets last week were glorious. One night I saw the glow of evening making beautiful patterns on the agave plants. I had to be quick, but I managed to catch the magic before it faded.

Sometimes we just need a piece of magic to remind us of the wonder of being alive.

A mythic spectacular

2011-09-11T13:15:00.000+12:00

Just before the fireworks began downtown on Friday night, the spectacular Opening Ceremony of the Rugby World Cup took place at Eden Park.
I've just watched it for the second time, on TV on demand. I feel so proud of NZ for putting on such a fabulous piece of theatre, full of mythic archetypes, beauty, movement and power. TVNZ has the video available for 5 more days - so do take a look (don't be put off by the adverts - they don't last long)
The photo is of water on the wild west coast - one that captures some of the feeling of the Opening Ceremony (since I can't access an actual image)

http://tvnz.co.nz/rugby-world-cup/opening-edenpark-video-4393770

Fireworks

2011-09-10T12:38:00.000+12:00

To my surprise and delight, I had a glimpse of the fireworks last night from my balcony. Sometimes, it was just a flash on the periphery.

Others flared up beautifully, and lingered in the sky long enough to photograph.

And then there were the moments when I received the full display - like spring flowers exploding in the sky, releasing their glory, hope and beauty.
The whole city was celebrating last night. After so many tough times, it's glorious to let fly and be joyful.

Waka sailing in

2011-09-09T18:21:00.001+12:00

It's been a beautiful day in Auckland today and the big party to open the Rugby World Cup began on the waterfront at 4 pm. Bunting is hanging everywhere along the streets. This man was hanging out his flags, and feeling proud of the display. He waved when I took a photo.

Now I'm not a rugby fan, but I do love a big cultural celebration. In the afternoon people were pouring down the streets towards the waterfront: whole families, with everyone dressed in black and silver to support the All Blacks. I didn't feel like tackling the crush, but wanted to get a glimpse of the waka (canoes) coming in to the Viaduct Basin. By walking along to the outer edge of Westhaven marina, I hoped to see something - but this was the best I could do: just a view of all the boats that were sailing out to get a good look - and a helicopter filming from high overhead.

But I got a photo by pointing my camera at the TV once I got home. 600 Maori paddlers have been practising all year for this event. It takes muscle and co-ordination to paddle one of these big canoes. The paddlers did a great job, with their paddles flashing white and brown, depending on which paddle side they displayed.

Once they climbed on to land, they did a magnificent haka. People are still partying down there; the venue is tightly packed and many have been turned away. When nightfall comes, there will be fireworks.
Rugby fan or not, I feel proud to see my country put on such a fantastic celebration.

Gift of fragrance

2011-09-08T12:32:00.000+12:00

On my doorstep yesterday, I discovered a gift from a dear friend. She was thinking of our family, and the funeral that took place yesterday for my granddaughter's boyfriend of 3 years, and she wanted me to have a fragrant plant that she knows I love: daphne.

Not only is the fragrance of daphne sweet and strong, but it lingers and spreads. Now my balcony 'garden' is being renewed: as the tulips pass their best, the daphne sits between them.

Fragrance carries the energy of love so directly. It's amazing how comforting this sweet smell is, on a day when life seems terribly sad.

Your joy is your sorrow

unmasked.

And the selfsame well

from which your laughter

rises was oftentimes filled with tears.

Kahlil Gibran

In the Green Lane

2011-09-06T14:36:00.000+12:00

Walking around Greenlane hospital this morning, I wondered what signs of regeneration there were to lift the spirits of sick and injured people. The trees are still bare, although the one on the left is showing a brightening of the twigs, which are turning yellow.

But leaves are slower to sprout than flowers. Most of the trees are still in winter, while the flowers are dancing in the spring sunshine.

Magnolias are spreading their heavenly perfume around the streets and hospital grounds.

And I saw my first bee, working the koromiko flowers very happily.
The inevitable flowering of this season eases my aching heart and weary arm. Even the bare trees, that seem arrested in winter's dormancy, will also respond to the rising sap and put out their leaves, all in due course.
Every spring is the only spring - a perpetual astonishment. ~Ellis Peters

Bitter-sweet

2011-09-04T13:45:00.000+12:00

Alongside the beauty and fragrance of spring, comes shock and grief.
My granddaughter's boyfriend of three years died last night from an accident. He was only 17.
Sometimes the flowering of youth is blasted by tragedy.
Nature is flowering.
I am grieving.

Spring flowering

2011-09-03T21:29:00.000+12:00

Flowers were blooming all along the way as I took my morning walk.

A plethora of flowers.

Do not linger

to gather flowers

to keep them, but walk on,

for flowers will

keep themselves

blooming

all your way.

—Rabindranath Tagore

House-warming

2011-08-30T16:28:00.001+12:00

Was I ready for my house-warming and birthday party? It's taken me nearly two years to be ready. For the first year I was publishing and selling a new book. Somehow I hadn't become settled enough, and there was always more to do. One thing I'd planned was to create a flowering garden in pots on my balcony.

The white hyacinth was just beginning to push out of the soil and into bloom, and the freesias were hanging out their fragrant petals, but that was all - because I was stopped by a broken wrist. 'Never mind, I'll go ahead anyway, and just enjoy the afternoon,' I decided.
But the garden appeared! Two friends, separately, had gone to the Eden Garden tulip day, and each brought me a pot of red tulips.

Another brought a gorgeous apricot begonia to sit inside.

Others brought daffodils, and bunches of violets.
And cards with pictures of flowers, and a bunch of camellias . . .

And so the garden came to me. I've been drinking in the beauty ever since, and giving thanks for the way in which the presence of so many loving friends has blessed my home.
It's so important to have a house warming. I know it took me a while to get it organised, but it turned out that it happened at the perfect time.
The Irish have a rather nice blessing for such an occasion:

May your home always

be too small

to hold all of your friends.

There was a moment in the middle of the afternoon when I felt that my home was about to burst with joy.

Unfolding

2011-08-28T20:51:00.000+12:00

The buds that I've watched through snow and then renewed warmth are now gently shaking out their skirts, preparing to dance.

My broken wrist is still in hibernation inside its white plaster cast, but today I was able to take some one-handed photos. Thank you for your kind enquiries.

On Tuesday I'm hoping to find out how it's doing. Meanwhile I'm imagining it is healing quietly, assisted by the energies of spring, and that it will eventually emerge from its bud case and dance once more.

Spring at the bach

2011-08-24T10:21:00.000+12:00

The grass on the walk from bach to the sea is studded with these star-like flowers; so bright and perky.

The broad beans in the bach garden are raising their stems towards the sun.

And the steps were covered in leaves from the storms, with weeds growing up through the cracks. This photo was taken before the weeds came - some months ago, in fact. But I'm showing it because this is where, in the fine sunshine of Saturday, while weeding with zest, I fell and broke my wrist,
So - my blogging will be sparse for a while. One hand good; two hands very good, and for some things, essential!

New growth

2011-08-21T14:47:00.001+12:00

I love to watch spring bringing new life to bush plants whem I'm at the bach. Here is the karamu, putting out its feathery blossom.

And kawakawa having a growth spurt with its candle-like flowers.

And rangiora spreading its fragrant flowerets. It can take a bit of practice to see native flowers, since they are usually green or white, being pollinated at night by moths.

I rejoice in these signs of new life, that have been undeterred by the frosts that fell on the fields on the flats below.

My photography and blogging may be slowed down for a while, as I'll explain in my next post.

Up the wall

2011-08-19T10:24:00.000+12:00

I stopped and stared as I walked past a smart new townhouse and saw these plants growing up the wall.

At first I thought it was a mural. Then I realised they were real. This photo is of the side wall. Spray-on shrubs, perhaps. Yet they are growing too, and putting out spring shoots.

It all looked a bit unnatural and surreal to me. I was relieved to see rebel leaf tips making a break for freedom at the top of the wall. If I was a plant, I don't think I'd be satisfied with a two-dimensional life.

Cosy hyacinths

2011-08-17T19:49:00.000+12:00

This year I grew two hyacinths in glass pots, starting them off in a dark cupboard so they could put roots down into the water below (to which I added charcoal for freshness). Once they put up their shoots, I brought them out into the light.

It's been a joy to show them to 3 year old Mira, and have her watch the miracle of the unfolding with me - and to smell the heavenly fragrance.

I put a third bulb in a pot outside, and would you believe it, but that one, exposed to the elements and every cold blast, is actually doing better than these cosetted beauties.

Here it is, basking in today's sun that was full of warmth, in sheltered nooks away from the icy wind.

Brave buds

2011-08-16T19:21:00.000+12:00

How were the buds doing, I wondered? After all, just as they were opening, Auckland had its first snowfall in 72 years, and its 'coldest ever daily high' (which is an odd word, considering it was a low!)
Of course, we are softies here, and the cold that we are feeling is nothing like what people further south are experiencing.
All the same, I wondered how those delicate buds (being Auckland buds) were managing the icy blasts.

Oh, brave buds! They continue to unfurl, and open. Nature's rhythm is stronger than any vagaries of the weather, it seems. The energy of spring is with us; it's just that it's masquerading as winter for a few days.

Snowflakes in Auckland!

2011-08-15T17:21:00.000+12:00

Yes, it's true! This afternoon the sun was swallowed up in the icy clouds above, and what began as rain suddenly softened into snow flakes.
Rain falls, but snowflakes tumble, float, and waft down from the sky.
Here beside the sea, the snow did not linger on the ground.
No photos were possible, for this ephemeral event.
And so all I can do is paint a word picture.
But I saw a sight I never thought to see in my lifetime: snow falling in Auckland!

Twigs

2011-08-12T16:33:00.000+12:00

Not only are the leaf buds turning red, but also the twigs as trees return to life.

I imagine the life blood flowing through these twigs, preparing for a great outbreak of leaves.
Officially, it's not yet spring. But to me, when I notice the subtle signs that are everywhere, spring is surely here. As the Chinese proverb says,

Spring is sooner recognized by plants than by humans.

Buds opening

2011-08-10T19:47:00.001+12:00

The same buds that I photographed just a few days ago and now peeling back their skins and showing their tender folded petals.

And while some trees are still quite dormant, others are popping out little leaf buds, red with new life.

It seems amazing that the bright green of a leaf is concealed inside such a red bud. Red and green are complementary colours. Artists learn to create a vibration by placing red and green next to each other. These buds must be vibrating with joy at their imminent release.

And Spring arose on the garden fair,

Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;

And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast

rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

~Percy Bysshe Shelley, 'The Sensitive Plant'

Budding

2011-08-05T17:03:00.000+12:00

I see buds everywhere, even in trees that look as if they are still winter-bare.
As I walked down the street, musing on this word 'Bud', I found a poem writing itself inside my head.

BUD

A perfect word

Let it be said

Enfolding U

From B/irth to D/eath.

Blessing for First Light

2011-08-02T19:01:00.000+12:00

Here is an Irish blessing, spoken in our circle last night as we celebrated First Light and remembered the Celtic Brigid, goddess of inspiration, poetry and healing:

When the first light of sun —

Bless you

When the long day is done —

Bless you

In your smiles and your tears —

Bless you

Through each day of your years —

Bless you

Blessings to you all, wherever you are, and in whatever season.

Celebrating First Light

2011-08-01T16:35:00.000+12:00

Tonight I'll be celebrating the festival of First Light. In this land of Aotearoa, the inanga (whitebait) are wriggling their way up the rivers.
We too will be listening to the new life that is young and wriggling inside after the hibernation of winter.

The yellow flowers will be set in the south, where in Celtic tradition we find the element of earth (reversed for our southern hemisphere). In the west lies water, signified tonight with this blue vessel and white sea shells. To the Celts, First Light, which is half-way between winter solstice and spring equinox, is the festival of the fire goddess Brigid, who is associated with creativity, poetry and healing.

Tonight the candles will be lit in honour of Brigid. And as an extra element, here is the Chinese goddess of compassion, Kuan Yin, for we will be invoking healing and compassion for absent friends, and all those in trouble at this time.
Kuan Yin is said to be 'She Who Sees and Hears the Cries of the World'.

This is a festival of gentleness, welcoming back the light, and letting it support the blossoming of hope.

Winter nesting

2011-07-27T16:43:00.000+12:00

At three years old, Mira has just had her first birthday party. There was so much to wonder at: the cake with its candles, the ritual of being sung to and then blowing them out.

And then of course the presents.

I gave her a set of nesting dolls.

Here she is, wondering what to make of this strange doll with no legs or arms.

But it's not long before all is revealed. One doll nests inside the other, and she pulls them out one by one until she reaches the 'baby' inside and smiles at it with such satisfaction. 'Baby's not working', she declares, which means that the baby, unlike the others, can't be opened up.

Nesting: it's all part of winter. As the family gathers around Mira and witnesses her birthday, it feels that we are nesting within each other. As the icy winds blow outside, and snow spreads over much of the country, nesting inside one another's hearts seems like just the best place to be - and the warmest.

What do ants love best?

2011-07-26T18:48:00.000+12:00

Last year, in autumn, I posted about the ants that were invading my home. Several people offered useful advice through their comments, and my favourite one was from an anonymous visitor who said, try out different foods, and mix them with borax, and this will help to wipe out the nest.

This year the ants arrived in autumn, and instead of being driven back by the winter cold, have kept invading. They turn up everywhere, all over the kitchen bench, up the bathroom walls, inside the electric kettle and even into my clothing.

They've been driving me crazy.
I've tried avocado, almond butter, honey, and many other kinds of food, mixed with borax - but nothing seems to work for long.

But now I've hit the jackpot! Maple syrup is the answer. They are coming in droves to drink from the little lid where this gourmet food is mixed with borax.

I'm told that persistence is needed. I suspect that every ant nest in the neighbourhood has heard the good news - either that or the borax isn't working and the population is growing as I feed them - but the ant trail is several lanes wide and shows no sign of abating after a week.

PS No photo with this one - I tried, but it's not a good look. Here's something else to delight your eyes instead. It's the photo of the view that you'd see from my place if you were an ant, and took a moment to raise your feelers from the maple sypup dish.

The bird with no head

2011-07-24T14:08:00.000+12:00

As I walked along the waterfront yesterday, I spotted a strange sight: a bird without a head.

I came closer, and saw that it was a shag. It seemed to be have been taking a nap, but as I approached it moved,

and opened its eyes,

taking a look at me to see if I posed a threat.

And then, deciding I didn't, tucked its head down again,

turned to one side,

and went back to sleep.

I wonder if I could learn to do that.

The gift that grew

2011-07-22T18:55:00.000+12:00

When I first moved into my apartment nearly two years ago, I sat there amidst the boxes and bare rooms, and had this thought: 'I wish someone would bring me flowers.'
I've always liked to grow flowers for picking, to bring life into my home.
But here I was, with no garden, and no welcome.
Then a friend came, bearing a yellow gerbera in a pot. I was elated! It flowered beautifully for quite a while, and then as potted plants do, it stopped and became just a leafy plant.
This year I decided to plant it out into my little balcony garden.
And here it is, flowering again, despite the wintry weather and blasting winds.
It seems to be smiling at me.
It welcomes me home, just as my friend did, so many months ago.
If you know someone who has just moved in to a new home, you can't go wrong by taking a flowering plant in a pot (no vases required), a plate of freshly baked scones, or a jar of home-made soup. Your gesture will be remembered forever.

A splash of yellow

2011-07-18T15:31:00.000+12:00

It was wild and cold out here on the west coast this weekend. The rain was lashing my face, and the lens of my camera as I sneaked it out for some photos.

The rain squall intensified as I attempted to photograph the hill across the stream.
But when I returned to the bach, my eye caught a patch of yellow. On this monochromatic day, that little splash of colour stood out.

The little kowhai tree has burst into flower. Usually kowhai trees flower in spring, but over the last few years, when this one first began to flower, it chose the coldest month of winter in which to put on a show.

Each time it happens, I remember my first grandchild, a little girl who died at six weeks. The kowhai tree was planted on her whenua (placenta). The anniversary of her death is on July 21. She would have been 18 this year, in the flowering of her youth.
This little flower reminds me of a golden tear drop.

White carrot

2011-07-16T15:59:00.001+12:00

I haven't visited the bach garden for a month. When I pulled up this vegetable, I thought it must be a parsnip, although I didn't remember planting any.

But no. It's a white Belgium carrot. Suddenly I remembered: in the autumn I was unable to buy orange carrot seeds from the organic shop as I drove out to the bach. Instead, they sold me a packet of heritage seeds, gathered and preserved by the Koanga Gardens.

On reading the packet, I see that the green shoulders, rising above the ground, are a feature of these carrots, and don't mean that I planted them badly!

Heritage seeds are resilient, and this row of carrots has certainly sprung up quickly, and shows no sign of disease.
Originally a Dutch heirloom, they have been grown in New Zealand for a long time. The packet says they are 'at their best cooked, stunning for flavouring soups and stews.'
I grated this one (not having found the packet at that stage), and with a few lettuce leaves gathered from the garden, enjoyed its juicy flavour as part of my lunch.

Two seasons

2011-07-13T20:45:00.000+12:00

It's been bleak; a week of storms, twisters, snow falls and on the west coast, immense surf. The wind has been biting. Yet, winter delivered a surprise.

On my walk, I discovered a young magnolia had burst into bloom, just two minutes away from the grey sea coast below.

It looked so pure, like a Japanese painting.

It looked as if spring had arrived.

The seasons have become confusing. All I can do is to relax and enjoy the contradictions. I decided that this was a two-season day, and that it didn't have to make sense.

The wild winter storms stimulate and refresh me, and the beauty of the magnolia awakens me to the miracle of new life.

Serenity and gratitude

2011-07-12T13:18:00.000+12:00

In the Wintergardens, on that inhospitable day when I took refuge in the warmed pavillion, this is what I saw: waterlily leaves that seemed to be made out of bronzed silk. A golden highlight shone on them from above, bringing out their luminosity, and a single flower rose out of the dark water.
It's called a royal water lily, and I can see why, because this one is luxurious. I sat beside it, and marvelled, feeling my soul unfold and come to rest in the serenity of pure being. Such gratitude for the beauty and peace that has been created here, flowering out of the city's chaos on a wet, windy Friday.

Winter smiles

2011-07-09T13:14:00.000+12:00

It was a cold, windy day with grey skies. Leaves were being scraped along the ground and tossed in the air. I pulled my coat tightly around me as I left an appointment and prepared myself for two more - dreary ones, like the day itself.

With an hour to kill between them, I needed warming and cheering. So I made my way to the Wintergardens in Auckland's domain. I walked straight towards a bed of pansies, lots of little cheerful faces, smiling at me.

They were so bright and alert that I found myself smiling back

especially when I changed upon this cluster. The funny thing is, that when I look at the photos, I see that their mouths are downturned, but when I was amongst them, I swear that they were chattering and smiling and greeting me in the most friendly way possible.

Sun berries

2011-07-07T16:36:00.001+12:00

This winter I'm noticing things I've never seen before. As I drive down a certain Auckland street, I see that the melia trees are in full berry. They are like lots of little suns, all over the trees, and they seem to light up the whole street on gloomy winter days.

I didn't even know this tree until I started watching one in my driveway, as it grew into leafing in the spring and then became bare at the end of autumn. The appearance of the tiny golden berries was a surprise.

It's a native of India, South East Asia and Australia, and has many other names, including white cedar, chinaberry, umbrella tree, and Pride of India.

Like the titoki berries, these little suns contain a secret. Inside each is a 5-grooved seed. The seeds have traditionally been used for rosary beads.
Of course, as soon as I read this, I wanted to see one. I was able to find three berries on the ground under the melia tree in my driveway, and uncovered the hard little seed in two of them, which I've photographed next to the berry itself. As you can see, the surfaces are perfect for the fingers to grip as the rosary is worked.

What treasures there are in nature, always awaiting discovery. This winter is yielding many secrets.

Where are the bumblebees?

2011-07-04T15:56:00.002+12:00

My jade plant is just as gorgeous as it was last year.

Its little flower heads are pink and open. They are putting out a soft, sweet fragrance. They're just hanging out, ready to be pollinated.

But where are the bumble bees?

Last year it was smothered with them. Bumble bees, being fat and fury, are great pollinators, because they pick up so much pollen.
They were introduced to New Zealand in 1885 to help the spread of red clover in the Canterbury fields of the South Island.
But they have some other gourmet tastes as well, and are eager to fly in and work any other attractive flowers.
My jade plant is the right colour. It's still gorgeous. They loved it last year. So where are they now?

Try this link if you'd like to watch a bumble bee in action (sigh).

http://youtu.be/zMJnwCUO76o

In the deep midwinter

2011-06-30T10:05:00.000+12:00

In the deep midwinter, a woman is writing . . . and a new book is emerging.

In the deep midwinter, a woman is reading . . . researching the subject of ageing, with the help of inspiring elders.

In the deep midwinter, a woman is planting . . . garlic for the winter solstice, to be harvested in midsummer.

In the deep midwinter, a woman is growing . . . a hyacinth in a dark cupboard, away from the light.

In the deep midwinter, this woman is smiling . . . at how the imagination flares in the dark and silent days.

Midwinter circles

2011-06-28T18:42:00.000+12:00

One of the joys of winter is gathering with friends around a warm fire, and sharing hearty food and good company. The first gathering was with my family, who once again joined with a friends' family for a winter dinner. My contribution, as it has been every year, was a plum pudding that we dowsed with brandy and lit with a match. The blue flame caressed the whole before we set to and tucked in.

On the top there's a sprig of holly, and around the edges persimmon chunks to remind us of the returning sun.

I made a circle of titoki berries also on a white plate, for all visitors to see over the last week.

Then over the weekend I was with a group of dear women friends, with whom I've celebrated the changing sessions for 25 years. This bowl of water made me think of gazing into the darkness of winter. At the bottom of the bowl is a beautiful fragment of paua shell.

And watching over us all was this beautiful clay goddess, made by my friend Helen, who crowned her with orchids. These midwinter circles have been so full of love and blessings. While the cold winds have raged outside and the 'fridge door of the Antarctic' has been flung wide open, my heart has been massaged and warmed.

Happy Winter Solstice!

2011-06-21T17:53:00.000+12:00

The sun is about to return (on June 22), bringing with it not so much warmth (for the coldest time is yet to come) as light, and that is welcome.

These images are from the altar set up for my Winter Solstice Retreat. These are the symbols for fire in the north.

And here is air in the east. I always think of birds when I think of air, and for winter, the birds are owls, those birds of the night who can see in the darkness. Matariki (the Pleiades) also falls in the east, for these 'little eyes of the gods' have now reappeared and can be seen on the eastern horizon at dawn.
A new seasonal year has begun. After so many disruptive events, may this new year bring peace and joy to all.

Winter solitude

2011-06-17T09:52:00.000+12:00

St Heliers beach is usually bustling with walkers. But not on this wintry day. The emptiness spoke to me of the emptying out that takes place in winter, and the seat seems to be offering an invitation to sit and be still.

In the other direction, it was the immensity of the winter skyscape that struck me. Winter has its own grandeur. I'm stepping into it.

The zen of winter

2011-06-15T18:38:00.001+12:00

Winter pares away details, and renders things simple and clear, like a Japanese wood cut. This is the melia tree, that I watched shedding its leaves. Now only these little gold berries are left.

And here's the jade plant, a mass of flowers, but simple in its shape against the backdrop of the flax.
I'm finding beauty in bareness this winter, and letting my life become as simple as the season.

Be content with what you have, rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you. ~Lao Tzu

I found one!

2011-06-13T10:27:00.001+12:00

I've been wanting to find one ever since I first saw it in a book on native trees - that was about 40 years ago. I even planted a tree, but it never fruited, maybe because it needed to be a female.

It's a titoki berry. And today I found my first one ever. There it was on the pavement, like a lucious little strawberry inside an acorn-like cup. It looked good enough to eat, but evidently they don't taste fantastic, even though Maori children used to eat them.

There's one, up in the tree, hidden inside the brown seed cases. You would never know they were there, except that I happened to spot some red stains on the pavement, and then found the one intact berry.

It's the little black seed inside the enticing red flesh that was of value to Maori, for the seed contains the finest oil they knew. It was quite a business extracting it, involving mashing up the fruit and washing away the flesh, then pounding the seeds and placing them inside a long, tough kete - flax basket. With a stick at either end, two people could then wind the basket in opposite directions to squeeze out the oil.

It was used in perfumes, and as a much prized hair oil.

The amazing thing is that the fruit-bearing titoki tree is next door to where I now live. I could so easily have missed it, but I'm learning to watch out for things as I take my walks, and keeping this blog is honing my powers of observation.
The titoki doesn't fruit every year; in fact there's a proverb that says a tree bears fruit kia puta tana hiahia —when it wants to. So both the titoki and me had to be ready to find each other.
I'm so happy to have found this beautiful, lush little gem!

Winter light

2011-06-11T17:44:00.000+12:00

I'm enjoying the special quality of the winter light.

It paints the water with a special shimmer.

It's cool and silvery, especially as the sun is going down. And it brings with it a feeling of peace.

. . . only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself.
- Ruth Stout

A splash of purple

2011-06-09T11:56:00.000+12:00

A splash of colour is so welcome at this time of the year, as the days grow grey and cool. I was so happy to find this lassiandra flowering when I took my walk.
It was a flower that my mother loved. She had one growing outside the dining room, where she could see it catching the morning sun rays while she drank her cup of tea.
I had a lassiandra in the garden of the first house I ever owned.

Purple is said to be uplifting

calming to mind and nerves

offers a sense of spirituality

encourages creativity

I think it pisses God off if you walk by the colour purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it. —Alice Walker

Slow season

2011-06-07T15:30:00.000+12:00

It's been the warmest May on record this year, so it's not surprising that the exotic trees are slow to shed their leaves. This magnificent oak tree stands in Awhitu Regional Park, on the site of the first European settler's house. It's been shedding its foliage from the top down . . .

. . . leaving a circle of crisp leaves on the ground beneath, dry enough to tumble in.
Meanwhile, the native trees are green-leafed and enjoying the rain. This old puriri stands in the same grounds.

And it sheds its beautiful pink flowers on to the ground beneath. They stand out brightly on the tree itself, contrasting with the green.

Two cultures stand side by side in this land. I love them both.

Fog clearing

2011-06-06T13:02:00.001+12:00

This morning, after three days lying low & feeling unwell, I ventured down to the jetty. Through the mist I saw what looked like a shag and maybe a very large duck, sitting patiently, waiting for fog clearance perhaps.

Me too, I thought, still feeling foggy in my brain. The brownish sea-bird moved closer to the shag, then looked the other way as if pretending to be quite independent.

Then they had a little confab. I realised that the brownish bird was probably a young adult, the daughter perhaps of the patient mother. 'Shall we take the plunge?' they seemed to be saying. 'Have we got the all-clear yet?'

The answer was clearly yes, because in plunged the young one with a rather clumsy flapping of wings and a big splash, while the mother glided in after.

Other birds were attracted by their activity, or maybe by the fog lifting a little, and mother bird went back to her post.

Yes, the fog was lifting. I could see the ghostly shapes of boats out at sea.

The original pair went swimming again, and others came to sit and watch. And then the shoreline was suddenly there, like a ghost ship floating in the mist.

And here I am too, back on the blog, my head clearing little by little. I'm feeling more patient now after sitting and watching the shags. Some things just take time.

Strange flowering

2011-06-01T17:08:00.000+12:00

I saw this strange 'flower' on the branches of a bare fruit tree as I walked around the land at Earthtalk. What could it be? It reminded me of kauri gum.
When I inquired later, I discovered that this is a Golden Queen peach tree, and it seems that the tree has some wounds, out of which these secretions have bled and solidified.

I'm remembering the talk I attended last week by Lynne, whose family had been holidaying on a beach in Samoa when the terrible tsunami struck two years ago. She spoke so movingly about the trauma— she who is a trauma therapist and knows the effects so well, yet went through it all herself. Out of the trauma came some extraordinary transformations. I felt moved after hearing her speak of the healing process and the kindnesses that helped her family after they ran for their lives, leaving everything behind.
Seeing these strange shapes on the Golden Queen reminded me of the unexpected beauty that may sometimes flower from deep wounding.