New Year's eve ritual

Last night we celebrated the new year with a simple ritual. During the day we'd all contemplated what 2010 had been about, and had searched for symbols to express its different aspects. We'd also found symbols for our hopes for 2011.

In our ritual we shared our symbols and placed them on the flax mat. Mine has been a year of much activity and hard work. I've learned many new skills: selling a new book, learning to do this blog, creating a Seasons Newsletter and a website; also leading seasonal retreats. For 2011 I want to focus on my new book, which I'd like to see unfolding like the marigold flower, or enjoy easy growth spurts like the first bean from my garden, which was just a creamy flower two weeks ago. The kawakawa leaves are about living from the heart. I found myself arranging them, the bean and marigold to make a butterfly. So here I am, poised to fly into the coming year.

Seasonal treasures

Here are the treasures of the season, placed into little hollows in the sand: the last pohutukawa flower, flax flower, white-headed wildflower, kawakawa leaf . . .

The black sand has layers of lighter sand under the surface, which makes little rings around each hollow.

On the last day of 2010 I offered up gratitude for all that the year has given me, and the wonders of this place on the wild west coast.

Full tank!

Here at the bach we depend on rainwater from a very small tank. With the family here, it goes down fast (even though there is no flush toilet; we have a 'long drop' in the bush). When the level went down to half it was time to ration showers and keep all spare water from the kitchen, ready for the garden.

But the good thing about this summer is the frequent days of rain. The rain makes the garden happy, and the sound of the water tinkling into the tank is music to my ears.

This picture is of the water tank smiling because it's full. We are free to take showers again and for now the garden is satiated.

Sand star

I've been playing some more with pohutukawa leaves. It took me a couple of days to arrive at this image. Besides finding the odd red leaf amongst the ample green, I also discovered a few yellow ones. The light green leaves in the centre are the new growth, and the darker green ones around the outside are from previous years.

I try and tune into the materials I'm working with, to see how they would like to be arranged. These leaves definitely wanted to point their way outward. I like their brilliance against the wet black iron sand, and was pleased with the finishing touch of the silver fern leaves, which continue the outward movement of the star.

Riding the surf

Everything's fresh today after the storm, including the surf. It was a bit choppy and not very big, but my new board is nice and fast. I got tossed off once, but also had a long ride that was fast enough to thrill.

Meanwhile, on the beach the wind was cool and the cloud formations in the sky tell of the weather change to come tomorrow.

This is how it is at present; one fine day followed by rain and wind. I'm watching the garden grow apace and observing how the beans, courgettes and tomatoes love the alternating hot sun and refreshing rain. The beans, that were just creamy flowers a week ago, are growing thicker and longer every day, and will soon be ready to pick. Baby courgettes are peeping out under huge leaves and little green tomatoes are sheltering close to the main stems. Falling into nature's rhythms is all part of letting go and releasing the patterns of the year.

Stillness before the storm

We walked through the wetland to the beach this morning, coming at it from a different angle. A storm was forecast, with heavy rain and high winds, but when we set out it was still cloudy and dry.
There by the cliff wall I spotted a blue heron. It stood motionless, then bent down to catch a little fish. Then it stalked a few steps with great dignity.

The wind turned, the rain began to pelt us, and we ran for cover. Meanwhile the heron stayed calm and still, unperturbed.

I think of how Dylan Thomas compared the herons to priests in the poem he wrote for his [30th?] birthday:
'Herons spire and spear'. I think of how the heron points the way, reminding me to maintain a still centre even in the midst of storms.

Surf

When the day turns humid, and the saturated air alternates between pricklings on the skin and actual rain, and I feel sluggish from the late afternoon heat, there's only one solution: to walk through the rain towards the surf.
The waves were bouncing and tingly, and once in I bounced and pranced through the bubbling water. Yipee! Instant energy and refreshment. I returned feeling perky once more, vowing to bring my board next time so I could ride the waves like the people in this photo.