Kiwi Christmas Tree

At the bach, space is limited and we are surrounded in native trees. What would be a good Kiwi Christmas tree? I wondered. Down the drive I found some manuka saplings that needed to be removed. After cutting a couple, I bedded them into a small bucket of earth.

Then, out from the loft I pulled out the Christmas decorations that have been used for many years. My granddaughter Sophie (now 16), always used to visit to decorate the tree before Christmas. Mira is only 2 1/2. Could she manage it? First she watched me loop a few of the little angels over the branches of the manuka. Then it was 'me do it' — one of her favourite phrases. And she could do it - beautifully. She observed so exactly and handled each ornament with great finesse.

Manuka is a 'nurse plant'; that is, where the bush has been cut or burned, little manuka seedlings pop up everywhere and grow rapidly, protecting the slower growing forest trees. After 20 - 30 years they graciously die away, allowing the big trees to take over. I felt like a nurse plant myself, a granny protecting the younger generation, knowing that eventually I will topple and make way for them to take over. 

And so we had our Kiwi Christmas tree.

Summer energy

I made this image the day before summer solstice. It expresses the rising energy of the full moon and peak sun. I think of the fish rising also, and swimming rapidly through the sea.
Among the red, yellow and green pohutukawa leaves I've tucked the occasional flax flower. The pohutukawas are slow to bloom on the west coast this year, and their colour is very dark (unlike the scarlet blossoms of the city); but the flax has been flowering profusely since November. The tuis are flocking around to enjoy the sweet nectar, then perch high and sing their hearts out.

Heart season

Summer, the season of the heart, is unfolding gently. I love the feeling of falling into holiday rhythm, being with family, sharing the cooking, swimming and walking.
Pohutukawa leaves are mostly dark green, apart from the new growth which is very light. But amongst the green are occasional red leaves, very bright. I've been picking them and playing with them.
This is the radiant heart image I made. With it I send my love to all, wherever you are, at Christmas.

Summer Solstice magic

In the early evening yesterday, family groups appeared out of nowhere and began walking towards the cave at the south end of the beach. My son Daniel, granddaughter Mira 2 1/2) and I joined them, walking for 30 minutes in the mist towards a cave that felt more like a mirage than something real. 'Cave' we said to Mira, but she had no concept of what that might mean.
At the cave entrance, many people were gathered. Just inside, a spiral trench had been carved out of the damp black sand, and in it we placed tea light candles. The Sing for Joy choir set up against the cave wall, and soon were in full voice, with rhythmic songs alternated with Christmas carols that we sang from the song sheets they'd given out.
It felt like a little dip into winter solstice, being in a large dark cave and singing carols, but also as we came out to a warm sea and glowing sunset, the fullness of summer. Little children, including Mira, cavorted in the waves, squealing with delight. We walked back along the beach, full of song, and slept soundly through the shortest night of the year.

A wet, wet world

The rain continues to fall and the ground is now saturated, the stream swollen and the garden plants satiated with the very thing they craved only a week ago. Just after I took this picture of the field below the bach, a gaggle of geese waddled over to swim in the huge puddle.
I walked in the rain today, and took many photos, which I can't post because the dial-up connection is too slow. So I'll have to do word snapshots: flax, whose red tongues took on an intense hue against the dark hill; the rushing stream with its corrugations of white waves that appeared when the water backed up; patterns traced on the sand by rain and seeds; and rows of water droplets, like strings of pearls, hanging from black kanuka branches.
Sometimes the rain eases off (it would be going too far to say 'stops'). I notice that the birds know it's about to happen, because that's when they start singing. Then as the rain withdraws its force, the air is punctured by rapid flights, like the shooting of spears, as the birds suddenly fly directly to the places they've been waiting to reach. I'm reminded of travellers, who've been held up at airports for days, and are at last released to travel once more. Here, enjoying solitude at the beginning of my holiday, I'm not in a hurry to go anywhere. I think of all the Christmas travellers, offer prayers for their safety, and rest in the contentment of being free to sit and observe the many moods of nature.

In praise of newness

The bach has a new roof, completed today. Here it is, a light grey colour-steel; coastal grade to resist the salty sea air. The ceiling space is now clean and packed with 'green' batts to insulate. Every corner has been nailed down to keep it pest free in the future.

I know it won't stay pristine forever, but for now I'm enjoying the newness. The bush too, is fresh and revived with the rain that keeps returning. The leaves are turning happy faces up to the sky. The runner beans are waving tendrils in the air, calling out for higher poles to climb on. Clean water is running into the water tank. What a good way to celebrate the end of the working year.

A fine moment

It's been raining for three days. But when I arrived at the bach, the rain rolled back into the clouds. I spread a table cloth over the table on the deck, added a vase of dandelions and some other little yellow flowers, and sat outside to eat a delicious evening meal: courgette and carrot bake, steamed fresh beans, locally grown broccoli, and lettuce from my garden, garnished with red capsicum and tomato slices. The dressing was tangy: olive oil and lemon, and it sang on my palate like a young soprano.
Through the heavy humid air, the piercing of bird song, with little spear-like notes surrounded me. As I sat, the words began to flow once more. They'd been sent into hiding with all the end-of-year business and organising, leaving little space for this blog.
Now the rain has resumed, and the garden plants are sighing with thankfulness.
My holiday has begun.

PS Out here I'm on slow time. My computer is on dial-up and it took 46 minutes to download this photo. So posting on the blog will take patience. I really appreciate your comments; if you haven't done this before it's quite easy.