Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Reaching the summit
We are reminded of the fiery history of Auckland, and give thanks that we are living here when the volcano god has emptied his food bowl and is now deeply slumbering, or has slipped away to vent his energy in the central plateau of the north island, where no city has been built.
Posted by Juliet at 3:56 PM 14 comments:
Saturday, February 22, 2014
The highest one of all
This is the most hidden of them all, as if the trees that cover its slopes are all conspiring to keep it a secret.
We are on our way to the highest point on the Auckland ismuth. Governor Hobson who named the first mountain he climbed after himself, then named Maungawhau after his superior officer George Eden. As you see from the sign at the beginning of this post, the original Maori name is being used once more.
The best is yet to come. But for now we are tired from climbing and will take a wee break. Join me in the next post to discover a surprise at the summit.
Posted by Juliet at 9:38 PM 12 comments:
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
My very own Valentine's red letter day
What is more precious than a young, happy life? This was the best Valentine's Day ever, my very own red letter day.
Posted by Juliet at 7:17 PM 16 comments:
Thursday, February 13, 2014
He climbed Ohinerangi first
In the foreground you can see one of the many hollows that dip into the sides of these cones, a sign of the kumara pits created by the Maori for storing their precious staple crop.
After climbing up and around Ohinerangi I felt recharged. The energy of these cones is amazing, almost as if their hidden fire is lurking somewhere within them. They also provide breathing spaces, parks that rise upwards, free of the busy activity of the city below.
Note: In my post on January 26 I called this mountain Remuera. This is a later Maori name, a corruption of Remu-wera (the burnt hem of a garment), that was mistakenly used for Ohinerangi.
Posted by Juliet at 1:27 PM 9 comments:
Sunday, February 9, 2014
The voice of a stream
Die schöne Müllerin babbles and rolls along with a consistency that keeps the mill wheels turning.
Walking or sitting by this sandy stream in the evening soothes away all my rough edges. The city becomes a distant dream. I am washed clear. The voice of the stream says, let go, enter my rhythm. It’s the rhythm of being. Just be. The rhythm of release.
Posted by Juliet at 11:08 AM 14 comments:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)