the nod for tomorrow


the solstice arrested

the day went on forever

the night a mini tableau of dreams .


what can we learn this solstice to take on board? 

we love to spit chips at pollies, fire cannons at the corporate world,  demonise and lay blame at the feet of capitalism. how easy to cast aspersions upon another, how difficult to see within oneSelf .

I realise I am one with blame and conflict, anger and violence, that I cannot separate for to separate is to lie and this new story requires truth.

I have Response Ability for the past as much as any potential future – this I must wear for any real change to take place.

we’re humans, clever and creative, much like children confounding and full of surprises. 

we are curve balls, circles, ovals and many pointed stars,

we are unique moments.

how to yield to this moment, to trust this presence in which the rule book belongs to the old story and we don’t yet know the new story, but we understand we can do better.

now is the time for adults.

We are Response Able.


this is the solstice gift,

that at supreme moments there is a pause a full stop a gap in the wings .

it is brief it is cosmic and it filters through our bloodstream.

we can halt, count to ten close our eyes and breathe,

giving thanks for this moment of arrest,

launch our song into the ethers

wave our flag of unified integrity

and fire our arrow of love.


within this deep still place

possible tomorrows are lined up waiting for the nod

so here it is

the nod for tomorrow…….


may we humans learn to work live and play with nature

in gracious surrender to the spirit that informs us,

in humble activism to the bodies that we deploy

in loving kindness to each and every being.








every story is a treasure discovered



that’s the thing isn’t it we all have a story to tell…landscape sky clouds hd wallpaper

every man every child every sister,

every cloud every drop of rain

every rainbow.



so many voices speaking chirping  writing singing whistling painting twittering  sculpting warbling building growling dancing weaving croaking……

humans love to spin yarns – of conquest and war,  love and redemption, pain  suffering betrayal  loss, courage and honour.

‘other’  Beings don’t have paper or pen laptop or phone,

don’t do human speak,

and yet,  they too have a tale to tell…


enter the faerie embassy

narrating the stories on behalf of



who am I  to dare this task?


I am earth speaker truth teller heart lover.


I am  wind weaving its message in the tree tops.

I am  bandicoot riffling thru the garden digging holes.

I am  wave smashing against the cliffs polishing history.


I am  kookaburra laughing at dawn.

I am  wombat scratching my backside against the kurrajong tree.

I am  echidna sticking my nose into the ground slurping up ants.

I am  cloud scribing events in the sky.

I am  magpie in the red gum, head tilted back, warbling a melody.



I am the voice of woman born

who stumbled into the 70’s clutching the pill,

into the 80’s holding hands with the goddess,

into the 90’s neck deep in mothering.

and into the 21st century

with a mission…


to Be

shallow focus of spider web

a voice for ‘other’

the spider and the web,

the wallaby and the whip bird,

the forest and the river.



it is midwinter and a diamond python has shed its skin in the lemon verbena.

the swallows have returned, they chatter about renovations as they check out the nests high up on the mud wall outside the kitchen .

the white naped and  the yellow earred honeyeaters have also returned  coming into the tank for a quick dip and feather ruffle on nearby branch.

the grey shrike thrush has struck up its spring song – a rich varied melody flowing thru our house and garden.

the ‘thing’ that has been turning over our kitchen yard for weeks has finally been identified- not a wild pig not lyrebirds.

the other night under torchlight we saw the wombat scratching and digging up the kikuyu – is it eating the roots we wonder?

we recognise him , he is the orphan baby that came into our home to be cared for by the Daughter Elsie until at two years of age in full adolescent phase he  wandered off into the forest to have a life.

goodness she did well as mum because he is huge now and taken to very vigorous landscaping though it all looks a bit of a mess to me.


every story is a treasure discovered

a gift received

a commonality shared,

human  whale  rock  platypus  snake  maiden fern    robin

co existing


deeply  exploring the earth domain.











W : welcome …

welcome to the land of the mist spiders



some early morning mist shrouds the forest in a thick silver grey blanket of moisture. Slung between branches and grasses are hundreds of webs, some as small as my hand, others bigger than a dinner plate and some shaped like baskets. Dewdrops hang poised on the gossamer threads and flash rainbows when caught in a sunbeam. A swamp wallaby sits under the wild cherry tree, having a bit of a scratch. A tiny head pops out from the pouch and looks around. Mother wallaby leans over and deftly clips a blade of grass to chew. Baby leans further out and clumsily sprawls onto the ground. It jumps up, leaps on Mum tumbles off has a scratch, ears twitch, a nibble then dives head first back into it‘s warm pocket.


days shorten and darken, very few hours of sunlight reach thru the tall canopy of gums. Under cold moonlight the wombat moves unhurriedly thru the bush pausing often to listen scratch think and munch on grass.  A superb blue wren flies into the house each day and gathers rent from the bench tops while upstairs in the roof a diamond python sleeps.  The dead trees of the forest supply us with firewood which becomes our focus, a meditation of wood gathering, chopping, splitting and stacking. Beside the fire we dream warmly and stories are told.



from the kitchen window we watch two red belly black snakes dance in the garden. They raise their sleek bodies up off the ground and exerting great force twine around and around each other pushing and swaying until one gives way. Quick as a flash they chase each other across the yard before rising up again going head to head. This is a male ritual of spring procreation. Over by the pond near the lemon tree a female is basking in sunshine. One of the males has to get his head higher than the other to become the winner, the alpha male. Much later John working in the shed notices the vanquished slink away thru the hedge. The winner glides sensuously over to the pond and curls up near the female where they loiter with intent well into the evening. The next day we discover them as coiled loops of black and red gently vibrating. Unlike the mating habits of the rooster and the hen this continues for hours.


an echidna with a back full of quivering spikes shuffling along on tiny feet stops and sticks its pointy nose deep into the earth and slurps up the ants. Goanna wearing its tough leathery coat and long sharp claws has responded to the heat and cruises the forest hunting old deaths and getting scolded by kingfisher and kookaburra.  We discover a tortoise laying eggs in a hole in the middle of our track, why there we wonder?  Kingston helps place a barricade around the spot but we never see them hatch out. The white headed pigeon flies in thirsty after its long flight south, perches on the edge of the tank beside the verandah and takes a long deep drink. Another migrant the channel-billed cuckoo an outrider of the storm fronts moving down from up north turns up with a wild screech and looks for a nest to place its egg in. Wattlebirds arrive and immediately start bossing the eastern spine bill, the new holland honeyeater and the lewins.

welcome to the forest

of the faerie embassy

where the mist spiders live…




this is chewed ears , he is the father of the little mob that hang about the house. here he is in a patch of  stinging nettle which he eats. truly .two theories on the chewed ears are a result of ticks on the ears or a bit of scrapping though we have only ever seen them play fighting each other so more likely ticks….




coming home


coming home

what a joy it is

and how balmy ….

after a week in Melbourne where my idea of winter cold was taken to a whole new level.

did we really ride to melb in the middle of winter on the motorbike only a couple of winters back and did I blog quite cockily about it?

who was that person?

the great southern oceans throws the wind along that corner of this island snapping and biting around our ears and toes under our collars and between our fingers.

the rain hovered and spattered drizzled and teamed

grey was the colour of choice in the skies .


it was dark the tale end of a long days drive as we turned in along wandella road

thru the valley of cows pastures sheep and farmers.

a new moon blushed out of fine wispy cloud and winked at us.

we stopped a few times along our track so I could clear sticks and branches

a big wind had visited and tossed the forest in our absence.

walking in past the herb garden I noted its flattened state

good one guys I yelled out

enjoying the oregano and the rosemary now.

at the kitchen steps a jade plant was toppled over and fallen out of its pot

the jellybean plant and some other succulent were eaten to non existence.

they the enfant terribles of this forest are now supping on succulents who was it? wallaby as in the red necked or the black swampy -wombat is an unlikely contender but what about possum muncher or is bandicoot stretching its data base?

for goddess sake what next??

I tentatively enter the house frozen in its tableau of our leaving

the splash of jonqils on the table are subdued but still retain a fragrance.

everything seems ok as I wander the rooms no doors or windows blown open

no obvious ratty invasions.

we joke often now

don’t leave the door open says John they meaning the wallabies will be in our bed next .

the wallabies spent the entire week we were away camped on our bedroom verandah judging by the scats on offer – the pink salvia has been slashed back to bare stems and the mandarin and lime have had a haircut – a bit of topiary art going on here me thinks.


the real big surprise came the next morning on a visit to the out house

it is a composting toilet system that has no door and  a double throne arrangement so if you wish you can contemplate the universe with a friend

not many of our family or guests take up this option but nonetheless the choice is available

and if you want further info ….



there on the lid of the first throne was a couple of scats

they forgot to open the lid and I reckon I know who it was.

a young wombat judging by the size of the scat

and it just so happens that I have spotted a young fella recently  toddling around after mum in the wee hours of the night when the moon is bright enough for me to catch a glimpse.

a  signature of the wombat is that they leave their business on top of rocks or fallen logs or wherever  there has been a disturbance –  they mark the spot.


creatures sleeping in our beds is not really a joke – it has already happened.

once upon a time when Elsie Rose was a wires animal carer she shared her bed with a baby wombat.

you see the terrific thing about wombats is that they can come into care as hairless beings be dropper fed bottle fed looked after for some

two years at which time they are adolescent drunk on hormones and the hugeness of life.

and then they  turn their backs on our soft world and return to being totally wild at home in the forest beings.


Elsie called him Braccis and he came to us about one year old to be reared until he could be released into our forest.

what an adventure – doing the dishes he settles down between your feet and has a snooze.

out in the garden he races after you bites you hard with his growing sharp teeth and you shriek and run and the game is on.

to stop him Elsie would pick him up very heavy boy that he was and flip him over onto his back and cradle  him – immediately he would surrender  pop his thumb in mouth and zone off .

apparently biting is what the males do when they get intimate with a girl.

so like any parents we had to share the wild hormonal ride

and then like any other teenagers he was going out at night staying out late and sometimes coming home beaten up.

back he would saunter  any old time and climb into bed with my daughter  and place  his head on the pillow too .

gradually it morphed from one whole night away to a couple to a few more and we knew he was ready to leave.


one night Elsie made the decision – I helped her  hold shut the fragile glass doors  of her bedroom while  he tried to barge his way in.

and then he would stop and think  which they love to do  –

eventually he wandered off into the rest of his life.

we  see him on moonlit nights huge creature that he is now.

I always call out hello and fancy his ears recognise my voice – some brief flicker of a memory of an earthen floor and the chatter of humans

the soft hands cradling-  the snuggy bed

and then he turns back to the grasses that are his diet and the forest that is his home.

like him I am home once again  and much as I complain about the sometimes less than desirable eating habits of my close neighbours

I am really very very grateful to share an existence alongside them.