First Fruits

 Yesterday was our festival of First Fruits; halfway between summer solstice and autumn equinox. In the old Celtic calendar, this was Lugnasad, in honour of Lugh the grain god. Later it became Lammas, when loaves made from the first corn were brought into the churches for blessing.
A Maori proverb about this season recognises its significance: Kua makura te kai; ka kai te tangata i nga kai hou o te tau: Fruits have now set and people eat the first fruits of the year. (Fruits in this context refers to all produce).
Out at the bach I gathered in a more meagre harvest than expected. One courgette had been missed and had turned into a marrow, leaving the plant depleted and limp. The promising tomato crop had diminished to a few fruits.

And this is why. Despite all the rain, the soil is dry, parched by the constant winds. And so I carried bucket after bucket of water to my poor struggling beans, tomatoes and pumpkins. The other aspect of First Fruits here in Aotearoa New Zealand is Te Waru. For Maori, this was a lean season, for although berries were ripening in the bush, they were not very filling. The kumara crop was not yet ready to harvest and the stored bounty of the year before was running low. Te Waru means 'the lean time.'

 I'm hoping the garden will revive after its long drink.

 The oak-leaf lettuces are frilling out and looking happy,

 and one butternut plant has produced.

Tucked in among the leaves, I found a few more beans. Enough for a small feast. Even when the crop is not fulfilling its full promise, fresh food from the garden tastes the best.
Finding the wellspring within: that is the task for Te Waru.

Dig within. Within is the wellspring of Good; and it is always ready to bubble up, if you just dig. — Marcus Aurelius

King tide, and I took more than a plunge

 Today, out at the west coast, the day was looking promising. As far as the flax is concerned, summer is well advanced, enough to ripen the seed heads and lift them into the sky. They don't care about the rainy windy episodes that have marked this season.

 As I came round a bend in the track, towards the beach, I noticed something unusual. The lagoon was blue. And it looked bigger.

 I walked a little further and saw that it had spread the full width of the approach to the beach. This is most unusual. Then I saw a sign announcing a King Tide.

 The surf life savers were out in force, for this beach can be dangerous and the rip was pulling strongly today. Most of them are volunteers, fit and plucky teenagers who have saved many a swimmer on the west coast beaches. Encouraged by their watchful presence, I decided to brave the waves and take my first swim of the summer.

As I stood knee high in the cool water, I had second thoughts. 'This is an early December temperature,' I said to myself. 'It's not an-end-of-January-come-along-in' sort of day at all.
That's when I saw it: a big wave bouncing high and rushing towards me. Then I saw the second one, just on its shoulder. And then the third, lifting its head up to get a good view. Now had I been poised with my boogie board, and turned in the other direction, a triple would have been just what I'd been waiting for, patiently, and I'd be all ready for a ride.

But I was just a reluctant, out-of practice swimmer, caught unawares. The next thing I knew I was tumbling over backwards, bouncing against the sand then up and over in the boiling surf. I stood up shakily, knowing that I'd just had my first swim (or was it that my first swim had me?) And it wasn't so bad.
I waved to the two young life guards who were standing at the water's edge, to let them know that I didn't need rescuing, then took another plunge, and another.
Dear reader, I was refreshed, through and through! And invigorated. And proud.

 As I walked back along the foaming edge of the lagoon I could feel a surfy feeling tingling inside me from my toes to my ears. Although the wind was a bit cool, I felt warm enough. The  happy feeling of summer having arrived was bubbling in my veins.

At the beach cafe, I discovered a new item on the menu: gluten-free blueberry muffins. Usually I avert my head when I see a menu of things I can't eat, but today I had a treat. As I sat in the shade, eating my muffin that arrived with a slice of orange and a dollop of yoghurt, I felt there was nothing more I could wish for.
Do you ever have a day like this, when everything you've been waiting for rolls up, all in one day?Today I had a summer holiday — and it was perfect.

I think summer might have arrived today

 Today the wind died down. And the sun shone all day. My mind didn't want to focus on work, and so I packed my backpack and went to the beach.

 Sitting under the trees, listening to the tide slipping across the sand and shells was soothing,

 and I wondered if I might take my first swim

 and then I thought, well no, it's not exactly blazing hot.

 On the beach teenage school girls were enjoying the last of their holidays. They were playing music and then every now and then would burst into song. Of course! Lorde has just won the Grammys and now every 17 year old aspires to be like her. Lorde arrived back in the country today, jet lagged and exhausted after all the excitement. But a whole generation of young women is now dreaming of greatness.

And so, maybe today did mark the arrival of summer. For when we break into song and our dreams burst into bloom, that's the season of warmth, long days, fun and drifting in the blue.

A family of volcanoes

 After climbing a steep flight of steps, we came to the crater. I love a natural pathway, especially a wavy one like this, with twists and turns. While waiting for Auckland's summer to arrive, I've found that the beaches are not the place to be. Nearly every day is windy and cool. It's almost the end of January and the first swim still hasn't happened!  High on this volcanic cone, hidden in a leafy suburb of Auckland, the wind was so fierce that I wished I'd put rocks in my pockets.

 The photo doesn't really show the steepness of the slopes down to the bottom of the crater. All around the ridge we found depressions in the ground, where there were once kumara pits. For this was a pa site (fortified village), and much of the terracing is still visible. You might get a sense of the perspective by seeing how small the sheep are down the bottom. The cone is called Te Kopuke.

 On the way to Te Kopuke I looked back, and saw the well-known cone of Maungawhau, the mountain of the 'whau' plant. Each summer I used to sit in Mt Eden village with other artists, under a big banner proclaiming 'Artists in Eden'. We would paint or draw the mountain, and then give our works to be auctioned on the spot, to raise money to help young artists. I used to walk up this mountain frequently.

 But - back to Te Kopuke, the path turned a corner, and there in front of us was another well-loved cone: Remu-wera, a fine mountain that lies to the east.

 When I was doing my training in psychosynthesis psychotherapy, we students used to climb Remu-wera during the lunch break, to release and replenish.

 Far in the distance, to the south, we could see Maungarei, a cone which has been quarried in the past. From this perspective, the cut line is clear. The other large cone, which I haven't photographed, is Maungakiekie, the one to which I have taken many visitors on their way from the airport to their lodgings.
From every one of these extinct cones, we get a view of the others. Te Kopuke is well situated for viewing. It reminds me of Auckland's history, and the family of volcanoes on which we perch. We are assured that they are 'not expected to erupt again', and so we have settled this once-fiery peninsula, trusting that it will stay cool and stable.

Descending the steps after circling the crater, I could feel the wind subsiding. It certainly blew away all the cobwebs, and I felt happy to have explored this hidden gem.

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Fullness

 While I've been in emptiness, nature has been in great fullness.

 Like the moon that flooded in my window last night. Just a little camera shake, and I have a heart, tipped on its side.

 And I'm remembering my farewell to the bach. On the last evening I walked out across the large inland dune that stretches between me and the lake.

 Sometimes, just as it's time to leave, everything becomes perfect.

 And the beauty is almost too much to bear.

And so, back home, I've been rather overwhelmed by the backlog of emails and tasks to be dealt with. I've withdrawn into quietness, and have felt too overwhelmed to read all the blog posts that I missed. But I've been sustained by the delicious courgettes and beans harvested from my bach garden. And gradually, little by little, I've been visiting you all, and loving your wonderful creative blog posts, that keep appearing from day to day.

I've been short of words and short of creative impulses. I'm stumbling, feeling inarticulate. But you are in abundance and fullness.

And I've had a new year surprise:
Gallivanta, who writes a lovely thoughtful, creative blog, has just honoured me in her latest post. My book 'Spirited Ageing' has been her first read of the year, and she writes about it so generously. Here's the link to her blog silkannthreades. Do take a look; she is well worth a visit. I'm reminded of when I did have the words and was in my creative fullness.

Return to nature

 I've been off-line, out in the wilds, on the edge of the Manukau harbour, taking time to be in the serenity of nature,

listening to the rhythm of the tides.

 But not alone. Once a year I take this time out with a community of people who care deeply about the earth and the health of our networks, ecological, social, political and spiritual. This year's gathering was called 'Power of Nature: Nature of Power', and we were inspired by several speakers, one from Britain and the other two with a strong grounding in the Maori world.

In soft focus, relaxing the work of the mind, we entered into the spirit of nature,

listening to the birds, trees, and water; watching the clouds that brought dramatic bursts of rain and wind, and then parted to reveal a shining moon, sailing high over our heads as we settled to sleep.

 Children played and made huts; we took mindfulness walks,

and together wove our stories, dreams and visions for a better world. Our projects for 2014 are wide-ranging and inspiring. Together we support one another as we prepare for the coming year.

Here is my favourite quote from the gathering:

[Your calling is] the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet.

—Frederick Buechner

Emptying out

Suddenly, after the excitement of holiday guests and then Christmas Day, with little voices shrill,  fast pattering feet, laughter and tears, tinsel and crumbs, feasting and fullness, everything has changed.

And you gasp, like one who has descended too fast in an aircraft, or driving down from a high hill.

Because after so much fullness, you have tumbled headlong into the emptiness. 

And you find yourself reaching for something that is no longer there.

Until you realise that there is only one thing to do, and that is to be present to the absences. And as you do that, other absences come crowding in: such as your parents who died 20 years ago. You find yourself remembering their love, and the way they made presents for their five children, in the evenings when they were tired from hard work.

You remember how they secretly painted toys that your father had sawn and assembled in his tool shed, and how your mother sewed at her old Singer treadle sewing machine, and how even though there wasn't much money, they made magical gifts for Christmas Day: a dolls wardrobe, with tiny hangers and little dresses; bride's outfits for the dolls, a scooter, a peddle car, and always a carefully wrapped special book.

And as you remember, and let yourself weep over the absences, letting the past roll into the present and fold itself in, just as your mother folded egg whites into the bubbly whipped yolks when she made her angel food dessert, you find that the absences have turned into presences.

Because you are letting them in.

A tui sings into the evening dusk and a keruru arrives to feed on the kawakawa fruit. You smell the air, and fill your lungs with the scent of renewal.
And you find that the emptiness, which seemed so vast and unbearable, has now become a fullness. The world is charged with beauty, even though the sun has gone and rain clouds are rolling in from the north west.