February : Year of the Horse : Monday

‘John Lennon would be proud of you ‘ I say. And Yoko come to think of it. Imagine Yoko all elegant grace standing in our lounge room her eye sharply focusing on the day bed couch in the corner. the mud brick  wall half pink then a wavy line of mauve a third sea  green and the rest pale  blue.not your average paint job to be sure. Light streaming in from the glasshouse bounces off the large leaved air plants.

Imprinting the image thru the lens. And click.

She turns to John ,it’s ok, there is peace… there is love. We did it my love.

Lying diagonally on the couch is Greg blue shirt matching the blue british embassy curtains and grey shorts, cuddled into his chest and held by one arm is Jess  red singlet and jean shorts, tucked under the other arm and flanking Greg’s body is Kingston, naked.

There are no white clothes like the scenes of John and Yoko in Canada when they were doing their’ love in bed ‘trip and no cameras flashing or reporters hanging around.  Even so I recognised it.

It had hippie screaming all over it.

Their faces were beaming eyes shining love light was pouring from a deep well out of their togetherness.

‘Look at you lot’ I say.

This is what it looks like when you give peace a chance. It grows adheres creates and blossoms. It is quietly efficient gracefully joyous and seriously the best show in town.

There are those that scoffed, you may say that I’m a dreamer but here is the reality.

On the couch they cuddle chat they laugh.

Jess says ‘ Mum, Greg says he is in heaven. And so he is ‘I reply.

heaven on earth.

I have heard this said to me many times teacher after mystic after sage after angel have said if you want heaven or hell it is available right now on planet earth.

You don’t have to go anywhere.

Oh but you do. You have to let go, you have to forgive and

you absolutely have to believe that living with peace and love is a real possibility.

After that it is easy.

My grandfather Samuel Richard Taylor chose to go to prison rather than fight in the First World War.

My father Murray Richmond Taylor considered the army (WW ll engineering division) a huge joke and played pranks as a way of passing the time.

I walked along Cuba Street Willis Lambton Quay in Wellington when I was 16, make love not war we chanted all bright eyed innocent and hippified.

The years roll on… you bring up your children as best as you can, you touch lives you are touched in turn. And one day you walk into your lounge room and see it has happened.

It is.

A man a daughter- woman and their child embrace on a sunny afternoon couch and like Yoko I turn and say it is done my love.

And now…

we continue…

it is becoming a little obsessive around here of late

just small things

small noticings

but…

they are black they fly and the bigger ones buzzzzzzz

 depending on your level of zen and detachment it can be  not noticeable mildly irritating  or extremely.

out comes the pink swot  and the death squad leaps  into action rendering little squashed blobs   all over the place.

where is the cleaner the one that is paid to follow on behind and put all these bodies into some sort of unmarked mass grave?

oh that’s right that’s me.

wow what a job description.

all manner of places I could finally gain employment.

probably with our current government even.

so much to cover up so many boats to hide so many planes taking off sending refugees back , back to something horrible  and frightening  something that they had hoped they had escaped from.

they don’t care  if they go to a country that doesn’t speak their language or know their customs or eat their food?

 it is about being safe

and now  after their arduous journey of months and years our government returns them to the soil of their birth

such a bitter-sweet pill to swallow.

 we could hope better times for them  but what is  hopeful about punishment torture jail homelessness and suffering.?

having recently bought one of those magnetic fly screens for the back door we are just a teeny bit taken with it.

John had observed that  the flies  would catch a ride in whenever someone went thru the doorway.

aah haa we can sort that and ordered the screen online arriving  with its cutesy little owl magnets .

now we watch and watch some more.

 it seems that all of a sudden the black bombers  materialise  zooming and buzzing around the house

and the obsession builds and we start to shore up our defences.

material is tacked onto the top of the door frame and  the leather is replaced at the bottom of the door .

we are onto the smaller gaps John informs me today ,rather bravely I thought looking around at the extent of holes available,

or was it insanely?

have we finally tipped ?

for years flies came and went

some meeting the death squad others taking up the option of a bridging visa pending deportation.

that is also part of my  job description.

I open the kitchen window and release them and yes maybe they do  turn around and find another way in but  maybe some go back to where they came from.

 perhaps  we have tipped over the edge and into  free fall, into the wonderful world of white noise and nonsense where the most exciting part of our day is staring at our fly screen’s capacity to  handle new  arrivals and checking out all the other possible  places they are getting in.

we follow up with  strategy meetings  plans and guidelines for a counter offensive. for our very own stop the ‘ ….. ……. ‘  program

but already I have blown that haven’t I when the major part of the program is secrecy. I should be  keeping mum.

what the heck consider this a  once a week briefing and  I  will lie to you and say no none flew past me today.

in the face of bold faced lies my friend what do we do?

 perhaps we content ourselves with  small obsessions   snoozes on the couch   and cups of tea

or we turn to a book and read the stories of real people

which is what I have done .

I have just finished   “The People Smuggler” by Robin De Crespigny .

it is the story of Ali Al Jenabi and his family .

do yourself a great big favour and give it a go.

it is awesome. it is enlightening. it is high adventure drama and cruelty .

it is  testament to the perseverance of love and the unquenchable capacity of spirit to keep on keeping on …against all odds .

how puny and disgusting authority looks against the rich depth of family  love and spirit that flowers beneath the weight of their brute force.

 I know everyone is always telling you to read this or watch that

and it is true that I have friends that say I can’t do it, I can’t read it.

‘it is beside my bed but I couldn’t get past his  father beaten and his brother having his fingers chopped off in abu ghraib’,  says Heather.

oh dear  there is so much more than that .

it is at it most essential about love and how we will do anything anything at all good or bad  for those that we hold dear.

this is humanity my friend and we are all part of this story.

will it change my world?

 can I offer permanent residency to the black bombers?

can I ?

probably not.

as John says we are not going to wake up tomorrow morning and everything will be lovely for everyone. it is not going to happen like that he tells me and he tells me again.

 in the lounge room I hear  the rustle of the green leaves getting out of the way and the fly  swot slapping against the glass .

in the paddocks next door  I hear the slasher/mulcher belching and bashing the up and coming wattle forest

 out the back of the valley a fire has been rolling for several days and we can imagine the  Tinpot fire brigade  suited up and ten- fouring.

‘The People Smuggler’ is a journey I have never had to take  but I know that  in any moment we are only a breath away from loosing our own world.

if I thought this country was ready for truth  love and  compassion

I would say let us have Ali Al Jenabi for prime minister

but we’re not so I will go back to small noticings of small things

and

can you move the kettle over please love??

 Yesterday Iwas a guest at  the University of Wollongong Bega campus. I went there   to read my previous blog ( Three men two rods and a packet of pilchards ) to a class of sociology students and discuss  the issue of asylum seekers with them.

they clapped ,wasn’t that polite.

some cried.

 mostly they didn’t have a clue about the reality of the situation.

real people real lives.

the story is always worth knowing.

it can only make us better human beings.

It is dark night time dark

the sheen on the waves rushing to embrace the beach emits  a silvery glow.  frothy  bubbles collapse on the shore offer  a mere glimmer in which to see.

three men two rods and a packet of pilchards.

this is the second night in a row that John finds himself on Cuttagee Beach ready to go home but our two Sri Lankan friends  not .

they did not know fishing back home . It is a job  there done by professional fishermen not a recreational sport nor something that develops as part and parcel of family life.

Indeed they tell us that during times of conflict the people  are not allowed to go anywhere near the coast.

Why is that?

They shrug, this they  cannot explain to us. Their English is not yet sufficient for details nuances and shadings.

what we do know is that despite assurances from the government of Sri Lanka  that the war ended in 2009, it didn’t for the Tamils.

what we do  know is that there still exists a very real climate of fear  manifesting in rapes beatings and killings ,that their homes villages and agricultural land is still occupied by the army who allege they are there “to keep the peace’ but are intent on reprisals.

Those that do not leave the island live in makeshift camps. it is a marginal existence and families are casting their children out into the four directions in the vain hope that they may find a safe refuge in which to  thrive and grow in happiness.

these young men  spend a lot of  time skyping family that have settled in many other countries. India , Belgium Yemen France and so on… technology and social media serves to hold these families together  in time and space.

it is a new world.

and here in this country they are making new families and it is into this offering we have jumped.

in the first week it was  straight into  the deep end , John took them rock fishing.

He  showed them the ABC of  catching bait getting it on the hook rigging sinkers tying knots casting  reeling and

it was Dunstan who caught the big one ,a most beautiful silver drummer.

What he doesn’t teach them is the wonder. this they feel their eyes light up Raj sings a happy song.

they come alive  standing in their own power on the edge of enormity, an enormity they know well from their journey across the Indian ocean but on this cliff on this day  it is not tinged with fear but  a deep joy that bursts from them and flings the rod out over the sea again and again.

a week later later after the rain and storms have passed John introduces  them to beach fishing. He calls  me after dark after I have eaten my dinner and with a laugh tells me  they won’t leave.

The bait has long  gone, the guts had been grabbed by Dunstan and blow me down with a feather but he caught a salmon with them.

I kid you not.

the only way John gets them to come home with the two fish caught by Dunstan a  tailor and a salmon is by promising them another go  the next night.

Cuttagee Beach  deja vu the fish are caught the bait is long gone . finally Raj has caught two although  he still doesn’t get  the difference between a wave pulling  on his  line and the tentative bite  of a fish.

John has taken a chair this night and a thermos of tea for which he is grateful. only his feet are wet and cold.

let’s go eh? he says

the reply yes yes one more ok  one more .

ready to go now ?

one more  one more ok.

the moon puts in a brief appearance before being swallowed by clouds.

It reminds us of Kingston and his two one mores.

they return around midnight eat a bowl of chili beans I had left on Stanley and go to bed.

again they take a fish over to Carole  and we eat well for many days.

the routine of life here is simple and they mould themselves seamlessly into it.

the garden is enlarged  and renovated. this work pleases them  and they want to finish it  before they leave.

they  plant beans and  talk of coming back and we hope they do.

sad, says Dunstan two days out from leaving.

21 hours we go he says .

this is getting hard now.

friday morning Central Hotel 6.50am Monica and Mark along with their two Jarred and Vaneesh meet us .

there are hugs all round and hand shakes and see you soons .

they climb on the coach  and with a wave  disappear down the highway.

we are left stunned saddened by departure and full of feeling ……..

full of respect most definitely, full of hope for their future absolutely,

full of  wonder for the gift given and the gift received.

we swap phone numbers and get their address. we are welcome anytime says Raj  24 hour any time .

we are kin now part and parcel of their lives.

what I have learnt is that they like sugar on their bread and butter  and sugar in their black tea

that their teeth are perfectly white and strong and their smiles light up the room.

what I have learnt is our greatest asset in times of darkness is the gift of ourselves and that  no government policy can defeat us on this journey.

what I have learnt is that it is possible to extend the hand of friendship and  receive a million blessings in return.

what we also know is that we will do it again.

one more ok

one more.

the little king came to stay

he is three now

a big boy.

a force of nature to be reckoned with

a chaotic random event occurring

a tornado whirling and twirling thru kitchen verandah shed bedroom and garden.

installations pop up everywhere

a nest of skewers balancing on top of a plastic container finely tuned with potato masher,  peeler and meat cleaver

perhaps a fast sports car parked within.

brightly coloured balls packed into a sieve and topped with tea cosy and ice tray.

there are no limits except the ones we vainly try to apply as we  gingerly pick our way thru the pandemonium known as Kingston John.

there are wood off cuts wheelbarrow boxes  nails and hammers packed haphazardly on the verandah and cascading down the steps.

there are saucepans full of trains in the lounge room and ladders blocking doorways.

there are slippers  shoes ,hats and jumpers a trail of temperatures and whims.

there are cups of milk tea, glasses of water, half chewed oranges, pots of hommous licked clean, crusts of marmalade toast and dregs of muesli in bowls loitering on various tables and shelves.

all activities accompanied by a never ending prattling sing songy story.

thursday last he travelled down  with his mum, a day when the air turned to snow and the  land lay under fine white drifts between Cooma and  Brown Mountain,

dawn on the Friday he jumps into our  bed   pressing his ever so sweet face  up close to mine twiddling my hair around his fingers chanting ‘tory  ‘tory ‘ tory and so it goes…

’ once upon a time  there was a little boy and his name was Kingston John… and off we sail on  adventures with Wallaby eating wild cherries and going down Wombat tunnels.

flying on the backs of Eagles to meet Whale  in Bermagui and hang out playing ball with the Seals  on Baranguba Island.

down at the dam he and wa wa meet the Dragon that lives far below the surface  and carries them off  to magical places .

he  has picnics with bandicoots and tortoise and echidna…

and THEN he says  ‘working thing  ‘tory about working thing’

what do you mean working thing ? I say .

working thing he says ‘tory my hair knotting  round and round his fingers.

you mean a machine story ?

yes .

wowsers  must be time to get up and have  tea and toast.

a phone on the mantelpiece rings,

a woman is about to birth in Canberra.

Jess eats her porridge kisses her son goodbye  and leaves.

he doesn’t miss a beat,

he is too busy  playing hard.

the opportunity to hang out with the men on a semi dry verandah and renovate the old bird-cage for a magpie that Sooti and Kat  found in the paddocks.

a young one badly injured.

this involves sawing and staples and wire and drills and screwdrivers

it is Kingston heaven and all the time it is raining hard.

Elsie is resting on the day bed after her second treatment with Shelli

every so often the little fella has to run in and clamour over her.

are you alright aunty?

holding her hand tenderly as she makes her way outside to check on the goings on.

I love you aunty he says.

I love you too she replies.

into this mix enters  the asylum seekers.

thru the local Bega Valley Rural Australians for Refugee group John has organized  six  Sri Lankan young men to come to Bega for two weeks and be hosted with various families.

this is hopefully one of many possible answers to offset our governments cruel reaction to those that flee persecution and seek asylum in our country.

they arrive on the Friday night immediately warming to the fun and games of a three year old instantly bonding .

at times the English is challenging and we speak in broken sentences, wave our arms around a lot . they smile and agree a lot.

gradually as the days roll on it gets easier and we become family. we are invited to a wedding in India in 2015 if fingers crossed this young man gets a working visa and can travel to meet his arranged bride.

stories are shared of an  eighteen day  boat journey from Madras to Christmas Island with 120 people on board .

scary yes.

they have been in detention in Darwin in Curtin in Melbourne and now live in Dandenong on a six month bridging visa.

what strikes me is their awesome capacity to be present in a way not often seen by similar aged young men in our culture.

it is not just their willingness to be involved in whatever is happening but their ability to anticipate and rise to the occasion  to offer to do to assist.

many years ago I was given  the meaning of community .

when a person sees a gap , sees something that needs to  be done and steps in  and does it, that is Community .

it is something that these young Sri Lankan men have in bucket fulls.

This is my  wish  for the little king , that he too may grow fully present ,not only to himself but to the  whole community around him.

election day 2013

I am not the only one here in this forest that doesn’t vote.

John has jumped on his BMW to take his turn at the ‘green’ table outside the cobargo school of arts hall. some time during the day he will go inside  and  make his mark on the paper of the insane.

I will remain here checking on the eastern spinebill that banged into our bedroom window while John was eating toast .He picked it up and cradled it against his beating heart .  ‘two crashed into the window’ he said before  placing it ever so softly on a branch in the rhododendron. Last I looked it was still sitting there .

out  in the world that is not  forest there will be a zillion computer systems running stats predicting trends while analysts demonstrate graphs and outcomes .

Already the media has told us who the winner will be.

Will it make a difference?

if you say so but the losers will remain losers.

rivers oceans forests food-producing land creatures birds and people

all losers in this current game of life.

air water earth fire spirit

the elements of life compromised.

but your vote can make a difference they tell us.

really

come on,

are we living in the truth or merely bystanders numb and glum with the tidy baubles of lies fed to us every morning along with our breakfast?

Is it Tony that is concerned about the continued consumption of our forests that reduces the probability of us  taking a breath?

Is  Kevin at all in touch with the deadly effects of fracking on our reservoirs of water held deep within this continent?

are we so in thrall that we would for one second think that their way is anything other than  anti life?

I see you waving a greens banner.

wave it.

I agree they seem a sane voice holding a note of compassion and respect for our beloved Earth, even an understanding perhaps of the road we are travelling on, the dangerous shoals we are already not negotiating and the tip over the edge coming up soon just around another bend in the stagnant river.

I turn to my relations in this forest and seek their feelings on the matter.

walking  out the kitchen door I catch the  powerful black satin wing beats of the raven lifting off from near the house with something in its mouth.

aah-aah-aah-aaaah    aah-aah-aaah-aaaah

ah busy multi tasking  I see.

I ask the teenagers going past wallaby one and two. svelte grey with hints of red ears swivel. dark eyes stare.  a lime leaf is chewed and another then another  breakfast on the hop bouncing over each other .

maybe tony and kevin aren’t such a  big deal afterall.

I approach the young diamond python that Kingston peed on at easter time .

It emerges from the guttering sunlight boldly accentuating the yellow and black markings, patiently on the hunt after a long winter nap it sets off  an avalanche of distress calls  in the mandarin tree.

well I guess they all have something else on their minds at the moment.

What about you angophora  elder tree?

creaking its old joints shedding  branches making way for the opening up of  more  apartments.

oh more development in the neighbourhood.

the clouds hovered with a promise of rain and the frogs have sang enough lately to make us believe

but not yet not yesterday but now

rain is spilling from the sky  loud drops crisp upon the roof

breezes bending trees

a pause in tempo followed by  a lull

dancing to a tune we cannot anticipate.

wherever I go they are all busy.

they are chittering and snoozing  scratching and preening

they are  foraging and building  nesting and loving.

.

buds are unfolding lilac and wisteria

seeds are shooting lettuce and rocket

roots are pushing deeper chasing moisture.

worms are composting  white ants are flying.

Elsies letterbox has been full of propaganda pamphlets

all  promising bigger better and stronger

hospitals schools roads economy.

more is what we are offered.

we need more as much as I need a bullet in my head right now.

better could be the forest allowed to do what it does best

manage  ongoing systems of life and growth  of oxygen and water.

better could be rivers that flow without sewerage and dioxins.

better could be teaching every child about the earth as home the universe as our address.

better could be the deepening of our love affair with the Mother

deepening our connection to spirit.

chief seattle said it and so have many others before and since

over and over and over again.

we are told that our vote will make a difference

don’t believe it .

it is a lie

your vote will do what it has always done, keep the big end of town in business the people enslaved and the earth being raped .

waving the green in my face again.

good wave it higher but do not rely on it to save our lives .

it may be that the ‘green’ will come to pass and the sacredness of existence will Be.

but in the meantime …

the day darkens and the wind picks up its voice

leaves fall in a flurry and rain drops patter lightly on the verandah.

the eastern spinebill  has flown away  and the water skink gliding along my window sill found no flies .

black snake  takes up residency on the rocks beside the pond

grey kangaroos mill around the lily dam

a growing mob safe on this side of the fence only.

.

I try one more time to gauge community attitude

kookaburras what say you?

sitting up like Jackie in a red gum they open their throats and chuckle

one flies down thrusts its beak into the hard dry ground and pulls up a tasty white  grub.

mmmmm they laugh again together.

an omen perhaps.

Bec rings and we snicker cackle hoot  and roar with laughter.

how preposterous we say

tony abbot what a joke!

kevin rudd you have got to be kidding!

it is obvious that the time is ripe for a grand sense of humour.

in the Forest it is business as usual

and amen to that.

I wish I was immune to the gentle grace of the swamp wallaby, to all seven of them feeding around our house on dusk and all the  other relos that know this forest as home. I wish my heart didn’t lurch with tenderness to see the babies scramble out of the pouch turn a somersault and tumble back in  or the teenager that races up to pounce upon Dad and playfully box for a minute or two.

they are devouring all that I once held precious, all that I considered important and MINE . the chives attempt to return from their winter dreaming only to be snipped off as soon as they poke their heads up.

I wish I could be immune to the ballad sung by the magpie. I wish I thought they were common birds not worthy of attention, a bird lacking the vibrancy of others somewhat like those dreary old black and white movies that we no longer watch.    I wish the rise and fall of the piercing harmonies  the building melodies and the kooky caroling did not move me into awe .

perhaps then I would not be pulled out of my dream  at 5. 30 when only a pinch of light is offering. I would not be serenaded  in the middle of my yoga practice to drift off with the lyrics and soar .

the ground of this forest is splatted heavily with scats wallaby  possum kangaroo bandicoot bush rat python pigeons owls honeyeaters and swallows. these days the wombat deposits its business directly onto the compost heap.

I wish I could be safe from the huge well of love that blooms in my body when my grandson launches himself clasping torch turned on  into our  bed in the still darkish morning and our bodies melt into each other.

perhaps if I didn’t love this being so much I could escape the haunting story of  dwindling fresh water and rising carbon levels in our atmosphere.

I wish  I didn’t skip for joy to see the young whale breach out of the water just off the headland at Bermagui Beach its mother close by.

perhaps  then I wouldn’t  give a toss  about huge plastic islands and toxic nuclear spills contaminating their ocean home.

I wish I didn’t care about the neighbours shooting every creature that dares to trespass on their paddocks and I especially wish I didn’t care that our leaders   demonize asylum seekers and punish them for escaping to a safe harbour.

Love joy reverence wonder fills us and blows us out of our minds.

when we return we can see our wake and then the pain of loss and destruction whams us.

to care implies responsibility

to feel passionately without reserve intensifies  the pain.

and I wish that John and I could stop high fiving each other in absolute glee to be living in a house free ( ish ) of rats and flies.

Daphne has retired for another year and we would mourn it leaving but for those equally amazing friends that follow. Like the soft star petals of the clematis that have opened to sprawl their beauty casually over the tops of young wattles and weave thru the fine needle like leaves of the Far Away Tree.  The coral pink of the peach blossoms strut to the tips of the branches and gently carpet the ground underneath .   Wrens flit after each other chasing the deep sensual pull of hormones and breeding, a compulsion to taste the other, to nest to create.

The Far Away Tree is a gracious native bush cherry within easy sight of the east verandah not far from the redundant top car park. Back in the days of a young family John carved out wooden steps in a wood block that he lent against the trunk so the girls could reach the first spreading branch. Inspired by our readings of Enid Blyton and the Far Away Tree the girls would scamper like monkeys up as high as they felt they could go and then sit and wait for a magical world to visit them. Returning to the house with knees rubbed, clothing skewed, bark and leaves tangled in their hair and eyes shining with the telling of tales tall and true.

On a weekend morning one two three four girls would giggle and moon their way into our bed. A short distance across the room the world of Narnia beckoned. First one would bravely climb in and shut the door . ‘It’s dark in here. ‘Sometimes we would hear a whimper. ‘ It’s soooo cold. ‘Some of them lasted seconds some a few minutes and some returned shivering carrying the  horror  of the confrontation with the Ice Queen.

Where does the magic go?

Who holds it in their hands now?

Why do we shrug it off  like a cardigan outgrown?

To be Grown up is serious business  – jobs careers material pleasures, erotic liaisons, debt mortgages family planning, a suit a tie a uniform, bland clothes moderate voices, no break dancing in the street, no bold singing or humming to the tune in your head, no baring the body and jumping in the waves, no hand stands on the beach no hint of wild.

Before Narnia and before the Far Away Tree there was ‘Lets go down Fairy Lane ‘ and hands would clap and smiles would leap onto little faces. Fairy Lane,  a track winding it’s way thru the forest to a gate that led out into the farmer’s paddocks and gave us access to our neighbours the Heaslips. It took the girls to boy fun and games with Seven and Leon. It gave us friendship and fine food cooked by Christine, fireworks nights engineered by a visiting Howie and rude insights and music from James.

Along Fairy Lane we  wander cake and flowers cradled preciously in little arms , gifts for the fay folk. At a spot where trees grew tall and many branched, where creepers tangled into hedges and moss and ferns sang loudly of the faerie realm the girls would leave their offerings. Returning in the dark time under moonlight little feet tripping on roots along the way shooshing each other as we got closer, keen for a sighting hopeful for a sign and Seriously Excited when they discovered that the cakes were gone and gifts had been left for them.

Beside fire beside water on the earth lying under clouds and sky children rise to the possibilities held within creations dance. They pick up their textas and draw  the stories.  With their voices they make up words and sing the songs and with their bodies they dance the mystery.

Sometimes a star would fizzle  in the night sky and race towards the earth disappearing from our view. Make a wish make a wish make a wish and it will come true. What else could we do but gather our star detectors and head off looking for the fallen star.

We trampled thru the forest finding wombat burrows  curly leaves and nests cupped in branches. We discovered silver bits of paper caught in a shrub, a shiny stone pressed up against a rotten log, a silvery web slung across a bush, a dewdrop glinting in  sunshine,a silvery flash from a wing turning in the top of a tree,  pieces of old burnished rusty metal  and some old bleached bones. It didn’t matter what we found, it didn’t matter what it was. All of it told us the story of the star that fell out of the sky and came to rest in our forest.

It is no hardship to imagine in childhood, to see thru the veil into other dimensions. It is no hardship to dream and believe in magic. It is not difficult to make a wish come true. The alchemy of turning mud pies into food ,stones into stories, crystals and flowers into healing potions, are all available to a small child. It is all there at our tiny little fingertips, held within our innocent hearts and seen thru our open eyes.   And then, at some point the wardrobe becomes a place for hanging clothes again, fairy lane becomes a track to drive on to gather firewood and the far away tree is a bush cherry tree covered in a pretty creeper.

brriiiinnnnggg   brrriinnnggggg

the phone rings

John has gone to see Shelli to have her  hands of magic remind his back of how to line up  so I am on call.

is that Sandy ?  says the tiny phone voice

yes it is.

how are you Sandy ?

good in fact  a most amazing thing happened at dawn this morning

a phenomena.

I woke to a palette of yellow the world was painted bright golden yellow.

I sat on the bed and stared  not the red sunrise colours this was yellow . I nudged John you have to see.

he blinked from under the covers too snuggy to care much.

I wanderd out to the kitchen  then  outside. it didnt come from anywhere the sky was its usual  whitish grey with puffy clouds and a smear of blue  .

there was no obvious sign of this glory, it just was it just filled the entire space .  after a bit it disappeared and the day seemed washed out lacking in  colour somehow.

we walked after  a hearing the glad news  from Elsie that she  had met her dog her dog to be. Words tumbled and bubbled  from her spilling  joy into our home amd hearts . Still some  weeks away but the long cherished guide is prepared and coming to walk with her and so we walked  out beyond the gate whipped by cold winds and   hunched deep in our jackets .

how  are you Carole ?

there are no solutions for this friend,  there is only band aids and hugs and I try to be good at both.

I’ve got the  form she says  they want my pension card photocopied .

I know my next line so I say it .

I can do that . this is to get her a rebate on her $1800 rate bill.

then she tells me she has just paid  an $800 electrickery bill and it took all her pension plus.

it’s that bloody stove of yours Carole.

it’s the heater  she says but  I have to have it on

of course you do it is winter afterall and the house is so very very cold .

I return to the stove  theme even though I know better I cannot help trying to fix something there.

the house is not wired up for a stove so she uses a plug into a power point one. are you using the old one or the new one your cousin bought you?

the old one . that new one is chinese and  its no good sandy.

then the phone bill rears its $250  head and I learn about another form she needs help with to get priority in having her phone fixed straight away. I need it sandy I cant be without what if I fell  what if…  ????

of course you need it I murmurr but really I am close to screaming with pain for this battler.

now what about  food ? not much she says,  I need cake sandy

cake   wow ok .

I’ve been sick and you wouldn’t know where I could get any cake would you ? she is sly this woman she is rat cunning she is an adept  player of emotions she is a wheedler a survivor a charmer a whiner  if tears will get her way she will cry.

and she does … sobbing about the road and them up the back of the valley making trouble.

I did  ring Southern Rivers Catchment Management Authority  I tell her who apparently haven’t got any when it comes to the Illawambra creek but suggest we talk to  Council  which has been done and the road looks like that.

We have to stop them we have to . it is making me sick she cries.

I need cake real bad sandy it’s an  energy food for me.

Carole I haven’t got time to bake to-day.

I wrap up the last two pieces of canadian orange cake  and scour the pantry for some provisions finding a couple of spuds  a carrot some cauli a pkt of  kingston biscuits  a punnet of strawberries a pkt of  two minute noodles  a couple of apples and some rolled oats.

and then I head off along County Boundary road stopping at Eagles View for two dozen freshly squeezed out eggs before turning up  at Figtree for a cuppa with Suzy. She has baked a chocolate coconut slice . the fire is on and we drink black tea hand delivered all the way from China. Steve arrives  home with a ute full of wood and joins us. I mention Carole and  they open their pantry cupboard.  Steve  hands me marmalade and Suzy puts together a hamper of  still warm slice  a pear some onions  tins of salmon and sardines  even dolmades.

I did look for vine leaves for you when I was in Melbourne  she said. thank you but Bec has bought us a mega jar  we just need the occasion now.

I am running late fighting the clock  driving quickly,  there is a meeting to catch in Bega concerning the refugee situation

concern being the operative word.

John wants to go we want to do something we want it to change we want so many many things to be different.

the Bega Valley Rural Australians for Refugees group is being re activated.

Carole is down behind the barn feeding lambs  when I arrive. it takes her ages to get up to the fence and  haul  herself over

slowly so slowly she makes her way to me and  leans into me . I hold her she cries.

I am a little impatient having spent too long at Suzys enjoying myself.

crouching down under the trees along  the path to the house avoiding the stinging nettle  past the cages with the red eyed  albino guinea pigs and sidestepping  the scratching  wild hens  up onto the verandah where several large boxes shrouded in blankets are bleating.

there’s twins in that one she says.  She takes the lambs off their mums and  hand rears them by  keeping them warm and snuggy in the dark.

if  you peel back the layers they try to clamber into your arms in their  short woolly coats with  their  wet tongues hunting  milk.

what are they this year Carole  ? girls she says

great girls means a good summer  a summer of rain and fertility.

boys mean dry drought a hard year.

this is the weather according to Carole and mostly she nails it.

in the kitchen we unpack the food  look at the forms  and before I am out  the kitchen door with the pension card she is sitting down to tuck in.

I guess she was really hungry.

today she rings

what do you need I ask ?

water I’m out of water

and some fat sausages  I’ve got $5 she says.

if I could sell some manure I could buy some stuff  and she cries again.  again the road ….again . …..

I’ll see you  tomorrow ok

ok.

another reality later we are sitting  in the DaMa Lounge at Mumbulla School with people of  heart and compassion with  intelligence and energy and ideas that flow from home respite to letters written to  policy development to flyers that bust myths and events .

afterwards we eat out like on a date

coming home in the dark and cold.

thursday

the phone rings

earlyish in the morning.

oh hi Glen

she giggles

there is a wood heater on gumtree in Pambula

$300.

I’ll check it out.

before you could blink an eye we were hooking up the trailer and setting our course south.

in bed over cuppa and toast  John asks what are you doing today ?

home today all day

baking    gardening    blogging   wood gathering

home all day…

John continues  on with project of ‘keeping the rats  out of here’  by closing the gap between the glasshouse and the roof.

the car that had been such a pain in the seat for me Wednesday is behaving beautifully today dragging the trailer along behind.

the fire nymph is sitting in the front of the  garage under the two storey house at the bottom of a cul de sac called George Street.

we already like it, in fact John liked it before he got off the phone to Kevin

that is a bit bold I say.

eventually we rouse Wendy who yells up the yard for Kevin

shorter than me with a white t-shirt stretched taut over a bulging  belly tucked into black trackie dacks

he clocks us checking out the mega white with blue trim that is really black  Harley Davidson

chrome so shiny I could have checked my lipstick

sheepskin seatcovers, stereo  intercom a drink holder for Wendy

who incidentally towers over hubby Kev

they have recently returned from touring Tassie 5 weeks.

I’ve  buried  too many  mates lately, life’s too short to waste  if you want to do something you’ve got to do it he says.

all the toys of  doing  are here from  the super sized boat under a tarp to  the dinghy  a couple of  utes and a trail bike .

Alpine X Fire Nymph  made in Hastings New Zealand

wow a kiwi

Glenda deserves brownie points for this

she sure does agrees John.

the trailer is manoeurved  up close to the southern verandah

and we cover our fire nymph with  a blue tarp

waiting now  for muscles  and installation.

Friday

the phone does not ring

early morning holds bird song clear skies yoga and porridge.

the swallows have added another layer of wet mud  to the wall of their nest

how high can they go before they will no longer fit between nest and roof ??

talk about friendly

a superb blue wren sits on my knee today

a small swampy camps on the verandah looks at me thru the glass when I enter  the bedroom

blinks an eye watches me leave.

baking lime biscuits and the Aunt Daisy canadian orange cake

you know the one where you put the whole orange skin and all thru the  mincer with raisins and walnuts .

I used sultanas instead.

I am at the sink and hear a familiar scrabbling sound  tinkle clink in the bowls dept

hello  Jumping Mouse.

I know it is a jumper  because I chased it from  pantry to kitchen  and back again.

no one has ever called me sane.

it  faddled around the bench the dishes behind the tiles and shot off up  the curtain

aahaa…. I opened the window and  pushed the curtain out   gently flapping it   with the metal soup ladle.

plop it fell  banged the window shut tore  outside but  couldn’t see it  anywhere

well that skedaddled  quick .

good job well done a pat on the back and wash my hands.

back to greasing the trays

checking the oven temperature  of Stanley.

beating the eggs singing a song.

a movement  a tink a   a tail disappears into the porridge pot.

how on earth  ??

maybe it scuttled off the curtain and I imagined it went out.

the game continues

I want to place something over it and hover with  sieve then  bowl    but it flounces away.

oh so cute just like a cat it it lies on its side on the floor reaching out  with an  arm  into the gap to gather crumbs

not at all fussed by my baking activities

we are a team in this kitchen of life  together.

it dashes  up the blue dining room curtain

very  carefully I sneak round the table  climb up on a chair and ease  the  window  open.

again I  push the curtain out and race  outside.

it is  scampering around in free fall clinging onto a sail in the wind wheeeeeeee

its eyes meet mine briefly.

I  give   the curtain  a shake  or two  and it drops  to the ground and sits quietly among the leaf litter behind the rotary hoe.

this time I am certain it is out and congratulate myself .

wow what a story to tell John when he comes in from work

from acting as grocer at Sweet Home Cobargo

make the icing using lime juice paint it on the biscuits.

you are kidding

it is back romping around  under the sink sprinting with that skippity  jump in  the air to  hide  under  the blue cupboard.

did I say oh so cute.

nothing burning

cake rising

I wipe my hands and set a mouse trap on the bench

I don’t see it again

but as the sun is setting I hear the trap slam and going into the dark kitchen with my one bat torch

I witness  a final wave of the tail .

Jumping Mouse is flying now.

gently I place it near the lavender calling owl  calling frogmouth

here is a gift for thee.

*****************************

and today I remembered  scotch thistle

it was the fluff of the scotch thistle that I got the kids to collect

inside that seed  head is the softest fluff

absolutely perfect for teeny weeny fairy pillows.

Wednesday

The phone rings

earlish in the morning.

Another warm spring day with the ultimate in blue sky.

A soft breeze after the buffeting of high-rise gusts .

I had just launched my self onto the bed where John was enjoying a cuppa and a read.

We discuss my frame of mind my anxiety racket that I suckled from my mother’s breast and the difficulty of changing.

Hello

Is that sandy ? a tiny voice asks

Not many still the claim the sandy connection.

Yes

Is that sandy?

Yes

And simultaneously as  the sobbing breaks over the line like a wave launching itself upon a cliff  I recognise Carole’ s voice.

Me instant panic  WHAT  I shout back to her.

John emerges from the bedroom stops and waits to know who is disturbed ….   a daughter a son a sister a father a friend.

I mouth Carole at him and he continues on to the kitchen.

Oh lovey what is it, my voice softening  and I reach out to take the pain away to heal to fix to make better.

This is what I want to do when faced with breakdown.

They are coming to cut the trees down along the road. Them council fellas.

it is that that man up the back stirring up trouble.

They can’t do it Sandy and her voice rises and shrieks and words tumble haphazardly into my ear while I murmur soothing sounds.

They  can’t take the pittosporum away my banks will collapse.

he says he is going to take them all out

I would rather die than let them do it.

the environment protection mob said the banks had to be  left alone. this country is prone to erosion.

They’ re coming at 11. I need support .I don’t know what to do I’ve been sick and couldn’t get out of bed and now this. I can’t take it anymore Sandy.

And a fresh wave rises from deep within and crashes over the phone and spills onto the floor at my feet.

I am on my way to Bega Carole can you ring the council and talk to them?

explain it , quote what the EPA  says.

You cant talk to them she says they don’t listen.

What about Keith?

Poor Keith our only green’ s councilor.

The only councilor that stood up for our beautiful gum trees in the park in Bega

And today in council he was trying a motion to ask for the last one the last magnificent tree to be left alone.

What about Ray ? I ask, the neighbour that bought Banyo and Cheryl’s place. Ray is standing as an independent so he can have his say about forests and rivers and solar power and respect.

good on you Ray who is  funding  himself at a $1000 plus just so he can have a say for the earth on behalf of all of us.

He’s in Wollongong working.

What about the EPA  ? Make some calls and I will get  back to you.

Ok she says.

I take it to John in front of Stanley who listens in to all our conversations.

how many times have  we heard this?  John says

you cant fix it .  I know but..

Just have your day it ‘ll be alright.  look after yourself.

I nod agreement get dressed and ring Carole. no answer .

The car is farting round not wanting to idle being sluggy.

maybe not the day to drive, maybe it is telling me to stay home.

I decide to  go a bit further and see if it comes right . ( it doesn’t)

Despite my assurance that I am not going to Caroles the car heads  up link road  and turns right onto Yowrie road past santa claus ‘s place on the corner and the new tin house where all the pine trees were cut down past Phillipe and his forge at the graceful Galba homestread past Leilas and Hughs  who is now in Malawi and round the corner into Illawambra creek road.

No answer at the house so I drive on  up the hill. Beside  the dog skulls on the fence is the council machine ready to begin. I get out he gets out.

We meet in the middle of the road.

Have you seen Carole?

She’s up there and further along the track is a figure all in black shuffling  very slowly .

She rang me very upset.

yes he says I have talked to her , she is alright now.

This roadside vegetation is very important to her.

somehow he looks different to other drivers I have met, a smile a willingness  open   a compassion for Carole perhaps.

Driving on I stop beside Carole  and hop out holding my arms  open

she collapses into me sobbing.

All the smells of the farm are there the lanolin the sheep manure the hay feed clinging to her tights

Her hair a lavish burgundy colour her fingernails  luminous  blue.  her toes  shaped like  claws clutch the earth thru her thongs, the nails also  blue.  from the knees her legs splay way out to the sides.

no one should have to walk like that.

How does she manage to keep up this farmiong business   we wonder time and time again???

This is why I am here to embrace this beautiful being to hold her close to my heart and cherish her.

What about going back home as I relinquish her weight out of my arms .

He’s alright  he is not going to do anything silly that other fellow didn’t come this is a new one.

You can train him I say, she laughs and hops in the car.

he will be a while she says so we’ll go look at the road. Two days they spent up there she harumphs.

All because of the man up the back  he wants a super highway well why doesnt he go live somewhere else.

Like the water we follow   stories bubble and meander thru now and then.

At the crossing we meet the chatty Illawambra creek and it is here  we used to pick our buckets of blackberries from hedges  that towered over our heads .  For years Carole protected them, no sprays ever came near them but eventually the machine took them out as her ability to stride  up the valley faltered.

Now it is all  piles of pushed over dirt  lying in  wait for the next flood to slide the remaining couple of metres into the creek.

the giant river she-oaks softly whisper and wave,  a young black wallaby watches us then darts across the road.

Once we used to stay in this valley when Banyo Chez Bree and Johnny lived here back before they sold to  Ray. We explored the hills the gullies ancient fig trees hidden in clefts orchids and clematis draped over quartz  rocks . We visitied the middle of the valley where the old pioneer slab hut is to say hello to the hundreds of grey kangaroos that call this place home.

Once the children splashed and jumped in joy with this creek .

Once they collected the fluff out of that prickle bush whose name totally eludes me so I could make them tiny fairy pillows.

And  up above us  the dumpling with its bald rock on which we would sit and dream.

and all  the  times we had sleep outs  up there  under full moon watching sunsets and sunrises.

I turn around on the flat where once we grew pumpkins  .

We return to watch the machine that is extending its long long arm to  clip the tips of shrubs and trees.

he gets out and comes over to us.

there is a cherry tree up further you won’t touch that will you? Carole is stronger  now  .

not if you don’t want me to, he says

and the culvert don’t push anything in there

no and if any gets in I will spoon it out, he is smiling.

got a spoon on that thing  have you ?

and he cups his hands together to show her.

she laughs  he laughs.

I take Carole back to the house.

it is going to be alright this time.