Monday 26 September 2011


We’ve emerged from our third Winter here. I forget what a slow and subtle descent it is into hibernation, a rather romantic notion that fogs the reality of what can feel lightless and wet. You only realise this once you’ve emerged and reflected on the bleakness. The house suffers from the thick inhalation of the wood fire, but hides it well in the emanated warmth.

Each September I’m especially reminded of my grandmother, as her birthday falls early in the month. She possessed spirits that mirror Spring; hope, beauty, light, renewal, safety.
I celebrate her and both sense and feel the onset of what will be a great relief that Spring in September has arrived.

When we first moved here I spent many weekends in our crowded lot picking up sticks. As a child, my brothers and I spent time at my grandparent’s farm. As it turns out, that beautiful farm is very close to where we now live. I shadowed my grandmother wherever she went. We’d all spend days in the paddocks plucking the fireweed, having picnics whilst the fences were fixed and eat roast beef and tomato sauce sandwiches up our tree. On some afternoons we’d walk the property and pick up the sticks that the eucalypts had shed. We’d carefully pile them and clear the lawn for the mower. How is it that 25 years later I find myself mimicking these days on our own land not far from that sacred, secret place.

It occurred to me whilst on my rounds that our history, even that that is unknown, contributes to who we are and the choices we make. These narratives intertwine, and it made sense and it made calm that I pick up sticks.

Welcome Spring, welcome light.

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