A local visitor to our garden - Arthur the wild Cockatoo who can be hand-fed

For weeks we have peered beyond wet glass towards monotonous dense clouds, grey and flat, which have covered our sky. Finally they have lifted. After so much rain the earth is soft and rich with moisture and the surrounding countryside is filled with a freshness and vigour as Spring encroaches with its budding leaves and blossom, eating away at Winter. Spring always surprises with its power of rebirth, forcing its way into life, awakening indestructible hope, for a better tomorrow.

Finally it has stopped raining as we turn the corner from Winter into Spring. The days are noticeably growing warmer and longer. Warm Spring days swell with a thousand buds, fleecy clouds sweep a dark blue sky reminding me of the promise of the Summer to come. Sweet Spring rain continues to fall on a regular basis feeding the moist green shades of earth. Birds bicker amongst shrubs and trees. The creek by which I walk brims over with rushing water. I throw in twigs and leaves and watch them swirl and tumble out of sight as they journey into mysterious depths. Wind gusts catch me up and bowl me along under branches long overgrown, encroaching over pathways. Patterned moss etches outlines along broken limbs thrown astrewn by past Winter winds. Pleasant the sun, warm to the face as I walk. Gum leaves, bestrewn, crackle underfoot. Carpets of Bluebells and Whitebells nod their heads. In my mind I imagine thousands of tolling bells as I brush past. Apple and cherry trees, rhododendrons and azaleas are in full bloom - a kaleidoscope of colour after the dullness of winter. Golden Wattles laugh out their unbodied joy at a new Season of rebirth. Bottle brushes with white, yellow, crimson, scarlet globes begin to flower, glorious in scent and colour. Delicate coloured orchids, no words can describe their poetic beauty, rise in long graceful sprays.

In the early mornings I again hear the old kookaburra laugh out his happiness of a new dawn. It begins with a low rattle of laughter escalating into a full-throated paeon of mirth, changing pitch with triumphant peals of sound. I find such laughter infectious and whilst watering the garden in the damp, misty early mornings I enjoy the affability. White-backed magpies strut their territory, our garden, or sit atop the fence corralling my progress with an overflowing of sound of ecstasy. They swoop fearlessly, their wing-tips metres from my head as I water recently planted seedlings. Weeds sprout in their thousands in the soft moist earth. No matter how many I pull easily from the earth, more seem to take their place. I will fight a loosing battle until the harshness of Summer holds them at bay ...

Grass and leaves drip heavily with a sheen of early morning dew. Such beauty in the sparkling glints. Brushing the tips of leaves, waterdrops dew like tiny dimonds, sun spangled they glint the wealth of nature as they fade upon the cool green leafy veins. Patterned, gossamer spider webs magically appear, an unbilical cord stretching between bushes, charting their spun passage of eternity. A thin vapour rises from the ground, slowly becoming transparent as the sun rises. The low-lying sun caresses skin with its warm embrace. The evenings draw in early, but gradually they are begining to lengthen. The great depth of sky becomes a fiery flame which fades gradually into heavy darkness, revealing new constellations, imperceptible to the eye at first, but perceptibly they brighten in the darkening heavens.

White feesias, their fragrance rising like a visible mist in the warmth from the late winter sunshine pervades our rumpus room. Terry has been working on the garden, creating order out of the riot of disorder the winter has left us with. The cats appear to wind their way around his legs and then disappear scrabbling up the fence to stalk the wilds of the vacant plots behind our house for rodents and lizards. We had lunch under the pergola at the long refectory table, dappled with sun and shade. Cheese and biscuits are spread across a blue and white checked tablecloth with a bottle of red wine. The tops of our wine glasses reflect the light, while their depths glow blood red. I drink little, the pleasure not worth the after-affects for a migraine sufferer. Magpies corral around us. Today, Sunday, the weather is really lovely - blossom sprinkles confetti like around us as we eat, chat and laugh. Silences, we smile at one another, in which no words need be spoken. The first yellow petals have begun to appear on our banksia rose. Masses of flowers, daffodils, irises, freesias and wattle stir in the slight breeze. Our garden smells of thyme and newly mowed grass.

After dinner, we sit relaxing with coffee and port in front of a blazing log fire, watching the world news. The cold white light of the real world is beamed into the warmth of our room. Somehow, compared to our own life, it all seems unreal as we watch the images chase themselves across the screen ...

The sun is just setting over Melbourne - grabbed my camera to share it with you all.

Today, I walked during my lunchbreak, four kilometers along Gardiners Creek which winds itself through the Malvern Valley. I walked in the sunlight under a web of branches throwing their shadows, listening to the birds, twittering, singing and trilling their joy of life. The walk takes me alongside the creek where the sunlight dances on the water, touching the surface and sending out sparks of bright light. Trees lean drunkenly from the bank and shimmering sunlight dances amongst their shadows and entangled undergrowth. In my imaginings, fallen logs become the faces of heavily jowled squatting trolls, flickering knats faeries and one broken tree stump, cloaked in draping ivy, the Sorcerer, Merlin.


The creek

Blackbirds, minors, sparrows and finches flutter nervously from bush to bush, chattering to each other in harsh warning notes as I pass. Magpies sit in the lower branches, perfectly motionless, then they lift their heads corralling, serenading me on my way. Crows flap their wings and lift into the air, fly toward me and at the very last moment they veer, their wings beating like a whisper of wind as they pass by gaining height. Almost, simultaneously their wings still and they drift upwards on a current of air, dip again and glide out of sight. Very occasionally my eye catches the red and blue flash of a kingfisher, though this is a rare sight. Only once have I seen one dive, straight as an arrow, into the water, to emerge with a sprinkling of diamonds flowing behind. The grass always seems to bend and duck in the breeze and listening to its rustle it is almost as if it is waving and talking to me, telling me the whispered secrets of life.

On my return journey, the tree-lined streets are always silent - so few people walk and are out and about nowadays. I occasionally see the odd jogger, a dog or two, a person working in their garden but apart from that nobody other than the doves who waddle nonchalantly in the middle of roads . My path always leads me back to the looming bulk of my office – a citadel of intrigue! A home for toads and vipers, comatose pythons, disgruntled alligators and forlorn tortoises and such other furtive and intrepid creatures who plot with reptilian stealth - definitely a zoo indeed!

"The misty morning steals awake"

The weather during the months of July/August, moves closer day by day to deep winter. The dawn arrives later and the evening darkness comes earlier. The days grow short and crabbed and are reluctant to yield any grudging sunlight and the air remains cool and damp. It is grey, still and wet. We wake to mornings that are uniformly grey with heavy cloud cover, thick and massive, pressing down over the land. There are a couple of hours in the early afternoon when the daylight is brighter but during most days the air itself remains moist and heavy. Slate grey puddles cover the surface of the land, reflecting the lowering weight of clouds above. There is no warm sun, no blue empty sky, only grey pressing down from above and a stone-grey earth below. During these cold, damp and dreary weekends, we snuggle in front of our roaring fire.

Once the swifts have come and gone Winter is upon us. The first fall of snow appears on the mountains. We awake during the first weeks of July to mornings of dense greyness where just the tree-tops appear out of a mysterious sea of mist below us. Although we have many leaden days, the sun does shine and the sky can be blue. During this month, Terry and I create order out of our garden’s riot of disorder when we clear the overgrown areas behind our pool, which will open up our view towards Port Phillip Bay. We are never lonely in our endeavours! Willy wagtails, blackbirds and wattle birds follow our progress along with our two small dogs, Tennyson and Kipling and two cats, Tobias and Pickles.

Magpies and kookaburras pay the occasional visit, the first with a choral, the second with a cackle of laughter. In the early mornings and early evenings, flocks of grey and pink galahs wheel across the house screeching madly, heading for a nearby gardens - if not our own. We've manage to attract eight types of parrots into our garden - cockatoos, galahs, black parrots, King parrots, Crimson and Eastern rosellas, corellas and parakeets by filling our birdfeeders with sunflower seeds. Occasionally, this is the month when we see a lonely Ibis who will sit perched, silhouetted in the dusk, upon a dead tree branch.

I love the beauty of sea, land and sky merging and the wonder of it. I have such an awed silence at its power. I love to listen and watch surging waves against a deepening blue sky and to hear the torrent of sound reverberating against the landscape. To view the bright harsh sunlight reflecting on the changing colour of sand, silvering towards the reaches where sky and horizon mist together. To walk an expanse of beach, with drifting, marching sand dunes where the only footsteps are my own. To see the gulls spread their wings, screaming on the draughts of wind and the sunlight glittering and dancing on the swirling, roaring, water. Nature takes delight in nature. Light and air, sea and sound, forever changing, reshaping, moving constantly through time, changing our coastlines. It is the presence of all the elements working together, meeting and merging powerfully. It gives me a sensation of the world around me. A sensation of risk, of things poised on the brink where anything might happen and never be the same again. Nature working with nature.

So many empty beaches along our coastline. One is able to stand and contemplate life with whispering, sweet music in the ears, with sea spray stinging the face watching the spindrifts of sand. To see the bright harsh sunlight reflect on the changing colour of sand, silvering towards the reaches where sky and horizon mist together. To be on an expanse of beach, with drifting, marching sand dunes, denuded of any trace of the present century with only footsteps to show man's presence. To see the gulls spread their wings, screaming on the draughts of wind and the sunlight glittering and dancing on the swirling, roaring water. To watch the surging waves against the deepening blue sky and listen to the constant roar and tumble of waves towards a wide unspoilt acreage of sand.

The beauty of sea, land and sky merging and the wonder of it. A torrent of sound reverberating against the landscape. I am always awed at its power. Truly, nature takes delight in nature. It is the presence of all the elements working together, meeting and merging powerfully. It is to sense the world and its sensation of risk, of things poised on the brink where anything might happen and never be the same again. Truly, nature working with nature. Light and air, sea and sound, forever changing, reshaping, moving constantly through time along the coastline.

We had an early morning walk in the rugged countryside amongst the mountain ash and blackwoods and the Banksia trees that twist and grow together. It was a walk with a panoramic view overlooking Lake Eildon and as we wandered our way downwards, through the eucalypts with their twisted mottled trunks, we chased butterflies and skinks, investigated strange holes and watched bull ants marching and spiders spinning their webs between trees. The wonderful Australian bush captures my heart with its brittleness and subtle colours and it is somehow enhanced by the golden quality of the sun as we slowly strolled through the crackling, knee-high dry grass. You don't have to listen hard to tune into the rhythm of the land. Cockatoos screamed and squabbled in the eucalypts above us, intermingled with the constant crowing of crows and small birds fussed and chirped, their songs snatched messages on the breeze. We heard the soft thud of a kangaroo and when we turned we saw a grey shadow motionless amongst the darker green's and ecru's and brown's before he thud-thudded onwards and out of sight. I wish I could give you an idea of the beauty, but I feel my words could not do it justice. We took photographs but these would not show you the scent and true colour, nor the sound of the wind in leaves, so essentially a part of Australia.

When the sun dropped and the evening drew in it was almost as if the sky had its own dimming switch. The sky was clear and the stars sat bright in the heavens. The Southern Cross looked so large and bright hanging in the sky. It was good to have a few days of peace and idyll and to be in the country so filled with beauty and to hear Kookaburra laughter and the twilight carol of magpies, so reminiscent of a bubbling, gurgling brook.

Silverton

Heat baking earth under dry crackling leaves, in crevices of bark, on the underside of stones. Bleached grass, dry earth to the horizon. A line of emus stalk the nothingness, then pound away with feathers flouncing, striding into the far distance, disappearing into the low scrub on the near horizon. Sun sets over dusty plains where sheep tracks lead like wheel spokes.

A distant night storm - Broken Hill

Dark, threatening clouds hug the horizon in a long gloomy band. The early evening darkens to a glassy patch of brightness in a swirling sky and suddenly even that was gone. The horizon is lit by sunken lightening flashes, flickering like an erratic florescent light. Gusts of gritty cool air, a smell of dampness. A noise like rushing wind and torrential rain hammers down. A storm cuts across the continent to dump rain onto flood plans and storm water drains, on lignum flats and stony ranges, on riverside gullies and desolate overgrazed paddocks. The white explosions of lightning move along the horizon and sink from view.

A new day, washed clean and clear. Flies, first light at six. Cockatoos drift towards the river, contradictory and raucous. Intervals of sunlight between skidding clouds across a lightning blue sky

Night Drive - Broken Hill to Mildura

Kangaroos appear, bouncing elastically, near misses made possible by constant braking and slow speed. Stars wheel across the windscreen and the cross rises in the star speckled sky. Ghostly outlines of tree skeletons appear and disappear. Sheep appear and scatter and reappear. They stand staring, eyes in the sweep of headlights like green refracting jewels. Owls, grasshoppers, bats, moths and flying ants make traceries in the dark. The struggle to stay awake on the straight road, in the comfortable airstream, cushioning us like a dream and the constant humming of the engine. The night breathes under the luminous star shine.

Other headlights materialising in the far sky and intermittently sink down. When they bore pass eventually they do so blindingly as if something has leapt flashing from the dark, from the deep, from the waters of where we are going.

Travelling from Mildura to Broken Hill is like travelling on the sea, a voyage across an ocean of land. The going smooth. Sandy tracks and unsealed roads lead off. Dips and long crests interrupt the low horizon. There are no hills just stretches of elevation with small insect like movements detectable in the vastness - wallabies.

Red earth, coatings of dust. Dust smudged clothing. A night time furnace of never ending heat - something about this country blows my mind.

Breathtaking, the stipple patterning of dry shrubs on the red plain. Thousands of acres stretching out in all directions with no sign of habitation anywhere. The late afternoon light creates a dusty golden haze and it seems almost possible to detect the curvature of the earth. The silence is broken by the chatter of finches in a tree among the rocks and by the screech of a hawk. I sniff the grassy dry air, listening to the immemorial shrill of crickets responding to my closeness, the nearer ones switching off, waiting.

A pale blue haze of sky. Old stately river gums shade the river bank. Red gums and wattles, serried waterlines on clay banks. An area of startling green lawn where two rivers meet. Reedy waterhole and in the tangled shady light of the river bank a wagtail stirs from grass stalk to grass stalk. Ducks, black swans, ibis, cormorants and pelicans sighted. Crows mill overhead. Fretwork of tree shadows where within wagtails and magpies stir. The gathering ground mist in the early morning air slowly disperses in the heat of the sun.

Muted greens and yellowy mud creams along the river bank. The river snaking off into reach after reach of gentle zig zags. The current sweeps past creating backward running eddies. Rafts of foam sweep round beds. Tree branches loosened from the banks surge in the current like half sunk rafts. Easy to stand all day to watch hypnotically its changes. Gnarled, wrinkled, massive river red gums march along its sides, hanging over the brown swirling water. I clamber down the steep bank with exposed tree roots used as handholds. Swarms of mosquitoes hover, tree limbs, leaves and sticks lay beached in the shallows. I track a wagtail from log to log, tame but elusive hovering at knee height, just beyond reach.

The old homestead is approach along a rutted, flat, salt brush edged track. Now a pile of rubble only a stark burnt out chimney place stands with crumbling bricks as a sign of habitation. The smell of stale piss and broken glass covers its base. I rub the rotting mortar of the stones beneath my finger tips. The perspective of the past clashes with the present. Moods of dread, of renewed anticipation out of necessity, romance, anger and greed, pain and hardship flow through me. An image of romantic decay, remote from ordinary life sensed. Behind the old house, a cold room built deep into the earth. Down flaked cement steps into the gloom, the air thick and stale. A rotting carcass and the sweet smell of death.

Inside the tin shed, stale shit pellets. A breeze shudders the loose iron walls. Serrated and grey fleeces of dead wool. A fly blown lump spread in the corner, white bones showing.

The Collection

Parrot feathers, a bleached bird's skull, worn shards of bottled glass. Bits of iron pyrites, flints, a knuckle of harden clay with a twist of crumbly opal running through. Handfuls of different stones.

Dried Waterhole

Dead meat. Roos with wool attached, mud trapped. Green flies, blowflies, bush flies, maggots, meat ants, crows thrashing around. So much death in this parched dry place. Eyeballs in skulls, carcases, stark rib cages and yellowy pelvises. The pile up exceeds the capacity of scavengers to affect their removal. A young fox, crouched, intact, still. A smell like body gas - a released sigh of disgust. We stand our hands covering our noses, taking in the water hole alive with the process of death. When the animals entered they entered the foulness, their last resting place, the ruin that had drawn them to the end of their journey, offering them, not the comfort of water, but the image of death and stink as they took their last breath of stillness.

Uncovered by the wind and rain a circle of stones lay bare. Feasts had been set and consumed by a departed race of man here among this ring of broken blackened stones and now only the shadow of their ritual remains. I touch the stones gently, feeling the pulse of life beneath my fingers. The fire place still holds its purpose like a secret. It still holds the aura of the past. I close my eyes, sounds and movement encroach. My thoughts enter past lives present in actuality. The smell of roasting meat, the crackle of flames, shadows dance and play. The wind smacks the embers and the rising smoke is whisked around in abrupt crazy patterns. I feel the beat of singing, the pulse of the land, I see the glowing faces in the firelight, painted. Eyes slanted, high foreheads, relatively tall upright, slim in build, Asian in origin, these a beautiful people. Had they come down from the Steppes in Russia, moved across the land mass of Asia and thence into Australia? How many years did it take them, one hundred, five hundred a thousand? I gently remove my fingers and feel saddened. Crouched over the stones, I feel the shock and the after shock of the touch. Looking towards the dried lake bed, I recall the landscape before the sheep had eaten the place down to the roots and trampled the fragile humus. Before the sands blew in. Like everyone with a need, a craving, a determined drive, the motivation to strip until nothing worth taking is left is a part of man's nature. I understand it, it is the tale of the opportunist. So much lost, forever shattered, desecrated, traded, pillaged, destroyed by ourselves. Yet, I also feel the tug of renewal, the altered landscape is still filled with unformed desire. Now, slowly the land begins to regenerate to become like it was before, before there were sheep or white men in this the spirit country.

It stands idle, empty, cloaked in mysterious ruin, light filters through the floor boards. Swallows nest in the rafters, beetles swarm in old wood bins, rats and mice nestle in the walls. Owls glide through the gloom. The sudden transition of gloom from stark sunlight makes it become a moody haunted place. I stand listening in the silence, every sound clear and identifiable. Movement of wind, thump of heat expanding tin, scrape of bird claws across the roof, slight swish of wings in the rafters, the scrabble of feet in the walls. Companionable, familiar noises. I run my fingers slowly over the greased stained wood and empty my mind ...

The heat, the throbbing noise, the smell of exhaust fumes. A steady metallic whirr of diesel run hand pieces. A percussive complexity plays against the ear, a steel chorus of never ending sound. The demanding shouts of the shearers amid the clattering combs and cutters. In constant motion, platform scales and a twin pronged bale tools. Piles of fleece and bits of wool spill from overflowing wool bins. Rousies noisily wield brooms. Fleece is piled in mounds like dirty laundry. Screaming sheep are plucked from holding pens. Bare chest bodies streaked with sweat. Long clean sweeping blows, creaming the belly wool to the floor, a repositioning of the sheep in one swift move. The curling back of the rest of the fleece in one smooth easy piece. An assembly line of wool forever moving. The heat, the smell, the sounds tumble through my mind in a riot of movement.

The pictures and sounds fade as I remove my hand and I am left with the silence. Through the open windows, I stare out at the eye hurting landscape, framing distant sandhills and low intricate endless scrub, the air throbs with the glare and the heat radiates. Distant sandridges glare above the scrubline. Emus stalk the scrub plains and hawks hunt the updrafts.

The night sky

The Australian night sky is astonishing, brilliant constellations stretch across the heavens. No lights of distant cities or country towns intrude below the skyline. The Southern Cross hangs, its pointers dangling. I drink in the stars in the silent immensity of the night. Warm night air fans my face. A feeling of slipping back in time, like a ship slipping its moorings and drifting away on an ocean of land. Stars rake, blur, flicker on the long top of reaching sandhills. Dark shapes of night stand separated from each other. I feel the vibrancy of the land beneath my fingers its spirit throb and breathe. I have a sense of belonging, of being a part of this mystical land. I think about the millions of sleepers and my mind tentatively stretches out without fear, explores gently, probing the depth of the night felled into stillness.

It feels as if I have taken up residence in the sky. Lifting my hand it is almost as if I can grab a pocket full of stars. The stars become white fires of other worlds. Do the stars tether us to a purpose? Was there other life looking back as I looked at them? I ask myself these questions. Standing under the star arena I sense their gravity tug, feel their comprehensive muted voices. I become the centre of their wheel, leaping overhead and cascading down and around. A space surfer floating on stars, surrendering to their beauty and power. I want nothing more than to rise into the star studded sky. I feel envious of astronauts who experience their beauty from space. I am drunk with the vastness of space and its immensity. Awestruck, humbled under the heavens, I feel so small.

Waking reality. A magnetic lowness in the air, a cold brooding stillness, the Southern Cross has turned over almost horizontal, the pattern of the nightsky changed. Minute by minute the light changes, a grim faint greyness surging forward into a cool pre-dawn light. Shadows elongate, prow-like. Dreamtime, a time of bewildering consciousness as earth and man stir into life. Another hour and the sky will lighten. First touch of morning along the horizon, faint light breaking over the salt brush plain. Galah and corella pink flush in the east. Morning sun, like an announcing trumpet blast, streams across the plain, etching the distant coolabahs and redgums in pitiless light. The shriek of corellas overhead, the stir of wagtails. Crows and magpies flap about. The land slowly stirs, another day breaks into life. Seated, I gaze out over the low-lit plain day dreaming, stealing a moment of peace. Waking thoughts surge and smash my peace into fragments, leaving them as fibrous dry bark, hot stones, curled dry leaves in an unrelenting sun that passes over the landscape and myself like a cloud shadow.

We woke to fresh bright days and watched the dawn give way to morning light, tinging the edge of clouds crimson. Palm trees, silhouetted against a pastel sky, stand like guards on parade. The new day’s light reflects against the ocean, creating a dark, sinister, soundless sea. The leaves on the trees, so green, silkily shimmer in the early morning sun. Beds of petunias, impatients and pansies weep tears of dew. A bird in flight darts from one bush to another. How palpable life seems when you smell the fragrance of the vegetation and hear the insects on the living, endless earth.

We walk through a rain forest. Fragmented shafts of light streak through the canopy creating an impression of cathedral splendour. A calling bird, the rustle of palm leaves, the scuttling of a lizard, breaks the eerie silence. Knats swirl and dance on shafts of sunlight. Dark trails of ants march under rotting vegetation. Dank underfoot, the pathway treacherous, we follow its meandering trail. Brilliant butterflies emerge from the gloom starling us with their festive colouring. The boys’ voices, echo and re-echo as they charge ahead, young explorers in an ancient heritage. A palm leaf crashes to the ground frightening us with its sudden clatter. The silence becomes profound. Everything standstills and waits. Slowly the sound and movement of the forest re-emerges into life. Vines intertwined, like snakes, twist and curl throughout the vegetation and we push them aside as we make our way forward. We climb a steep stairway, its steps carved out of natural stone, to stand overlooking the forest which stretches as far as the eye can see. In the air, wisps of mist hang low over its canopy. In the distance we hear, but cannot see, the tumbling sound of a waterfall. Our faces and bodies covered in sweat, we sit and relax, a ten minute respite. There’s no wind, no breeze to push the humid air away and we look forward to the evening breeze. We brush flies and mozzies from our bodies and check for leeches before returning into the dark, dank confines.

Hastings street, the main street in Noosa, is full of life, colour and constant movement. The street is lined with dozens of cafes, art galleries, trendy boutiques, surf shops, real estate agents, hotels and small exclusive restaurants. It has everything that is currently chic, the arts, the ocean and fine dining. Attractive girls, bare legged with tanned bodies, move with a certain grace along its sidewalks, followed by the occasional whiff of suntan lotion. Elegant women attired in light shades of linen and silk sit under bright canopies, sipping ice cold glasses, surveying the passing parade of people. There is a constant drone of chitchat in the air so reminiscent of chattering sparrows. Short bursts of laughter turn people’s heads and bring smiles to their faces at such unrestrained gaiety.

Sand, sea, sun and palm trees, like a picture postcard turned into reality. The heat of the day holds firm into the evenings. Sunbathers, not wanting to let the day go, stay on prolonging the day, taking them into the night. The out-of-state, lobster red, some to pay dearly in the days ahead, emerge in the twilight into Hastings Street to make their way homeward. Their muted voices hang in the still air.

Sudden wild storms sweep in from the sea. Massive clouds tumble and boil across the horizon, creeping steadily towards us, turning everything grey. Heavy rain falls, marking the sea with furious splashes, creating streams of water in the sand. Waves rear up like furious white horses then collapse and gallop madly towards the shore renewing themselves in another frenzied rush. There’s nothing now but greyness and sea and sky merge as one. In the distance rolling thunder and streaks of lightning flash across the sky. The wind whoops and howls its manic anger, tearing at trees, hurtling leaves and palm throngs in all directions. The storm is fully upon us as the thunder cracks and the lightning forks to bounce across the sea. Sweeping seabirds, screaming, skim low over crashing waves to wheel abruptly on the fierce gusts of wind. We stand huddled under an overhang, our clothing plastered wetly to our bodies, waiting for the cessation of nature’s madness. Within minutes, the rain lightens and softens, the thunder becomes muted and the wind abates. In the distance we see a blue streak of sky, shortly we are bathed in sunlight and we continue our shoreline walk under the arc of a rainbow.

On Saturday we awoke to a dew spangled morning and a golden sheen of a day. It was one of those brilliant winter days when the world gleamed like something new-made. The sky was pale blue, clean and bright. Our breath puffed great silver clouds in the cold air. Later in the day as the evening mist rose and the failing sunlight turned into dusk, a cracking fire kept away the night chill with its bright gold, glowing red embers. As the birds winged their way to their nests swooping and diving through the still dusk the sun touched the sea pooling like molten brass on the far horizon. The night breeze whispered through the gum leaves. I listened to the night sounds of the chirruping sparrows, thrushes and blackbirds and the scream of a departing cockatoo and the shifting of the leaves and the tick and creak of swaying branches as a possum rustles furtively in the gum leaves above my head. On Sunday we awoke to a dense grey fog which wrapped the land in a clotted mass as thick as wool which never quite lifted. Later in the morning it rained from a pewter filled sky.

The days are slowly getting cooler and the winter wind occasionally places its cold fingers upon my face. So far this year, we have had only a few cold grey days of little light and bone biting winds. Slowly our days begin to grow lighter and longer. The mountains in the high places wear a thin winter mantle of white. The snow this season has been light. The seasons continue to move through their inexorable cycle of birth and rebirth and the rhythm of life. Soon the spring rain will soak the soil, the summer sun will bake and blister the land and the autumn mists will once again chill the heart.

I attempt to describe, illustrate to get my thoughts and ideas down on paper. Will I ever be able to express what I struggle to say, to describe ? The limitations of language that lay upon me and beyond that, those of the writer.

How does it start, with a thought and idea? One word which leads to another and another, building slowly into a whole. And in the vague horizon a book. Is it beyond my reach? I don't have the means of expression. How can I make the words come alive, to touch those who will read what I will eventually write?

So much written, and then rewritten innumerable times, then rewritten, extinguished, lost, evoked and a clear sentence, once familiar, becomes enigmatic as it passes, in silence, from life to death, while the original thought disappears under the ever flowing words. Words constantly rise up and tumble from my brain onto the screen, like threads of some substance, clinging. I distinguish them but not with great clarity. There is something fragile in their emerging disorder. A code, a signal, a confusion of words!

The dreamed of, implausible words flowing, growing, expanding. Don't flee from me! A central word in a phrase discovered, which serves as a base for the others that come after. What a review of palindronic words. I experiment, with phrases and ideas. Cut, paste, at last it's complete. Then take it apart again, alter it, I take away a word here and there. The words stare at me. Somehow their exact meaning has been lost and they've become ambiguous.


Words and more words, a play of words scrabbling to unravel ...

I realise that time has to be spent, not saved. Do you know what I mean? Enjoy every moment as it comes, take every minute as being precious. We inhibit our bodies but our bodies aren't ourselves. We possess them like a house - but only for a time. We're only visitors really on this earth and perhaps we do leave traces of ourselves in subtle ways. Life is repetitious in a sense, but it is far better to let it move calmly along without the storms it can sometimes throw at us. There are always those invisible, sometimes treacherous undercurrents that remain which can pull one under.

The joy, my depth of understanding and the reverence for life flows within myself. It gives me an insight to what we are, what we can achieve. It moves me forward into growth, towards not only self-knowledge but self improvement. It is not easy and it's a struggle to look at oneself to allow ones inner thoughts the freedom to expand. It's an acceptance of self and others. It's enjoying and appreciating the multifarious forms and phenomena of creation. Everything is held within ourselves. I have become aware of my own greater understanding of life around myself. I believe I understand and appreciate myself but I am left baffled. It often feels as if I am in a constant state of discovery. I feel whole as a person and in harmony with life. I still have a long way to go in my discovery of this inner being but a path has been shown.

God? I cannot tell what He is or what he is charged with. He is unimaginable to the normal sense - alien almost. To touch is to lose opacity though it is more than feeling and knowing. It is an awareness that cannot be described. Words and body do not exist in the normal sense. A moving within an unreal space which has no limits, no topography, walls or air, I can only describe it as non existence. A journey through a void, yet it is clear and definitive. To embrace, to touch, is to become One. I am as He is as I am. His every word revealed, His world reflected from within myself. It seems to come from far away, from forever. My mind unwinds, increasing, spreading, opening, until I can no longer grasp what I am for I am everything, for I am one with everything. Drifting, spiralling through His creation. I cannot reach its end nor understand for it has no beginning nor end.

How can I structure my words to help you understand. Sometimes, it seems nothing at all brings this inner most merging - it just happens. It meets the demands of my life, it restores my balance, gives me strength. It is unlimited, a forever expanding entity, one that most would repudiate because it is hostile to the abstract. The mind reveals little by little, step by step. Is it illusory? Imagination? How can I tell? Questions I ask myself. I cannot deny that it happens. I accept it for what it is. I cannot espouse philosophy, or religion or offer something to believe in or accept on faith. Our bodies are limited, but our minds are not, they can expand. It is ours to discover. It is impossible to imagine, existence beyond consideration, there, only there, is where the passage of time can become conceivable. Drawn from outside in - the foundation of the universe, of ourselves, creating, changing never ending, yet in some way static. I feel as if I stand on the edge of something great and immense yet I do not truly understand. My mind does not truly comprehend what it is. More than ever I begin to understand why God is infinite and in I sense I believe I understand the words "made in his image". His image that is reflected within ourselves as we are in Him.

An English winter in childhood is a table set with frosty mornings and cold clear nights full of starlight. Winter moves exorably forward. It comes upon us silently, when we least expect it, like the steadiloy creeping snow. As the last leaves drift from the trees and the nights draw in winter is suddenly upon us with its cold winds, rain and hail.

As October drifts towards November and Jack Frost engraves his visit upon the insides of window panes and the cold air nips at our face, Bonfire Night draws near. Old clothes begged and filled with newspaper and threepence saved up for the mask; the Guy is assembled and displayed and coins collected for the fireworks. A cold, brilliantly starlit night, a huge crackling bonfire burns with sparks flying, the aromas of smoke, baked potatoes and gunpowder drift through the night. The evening is celebrated with a tin of fireworks. The air is filled with numerous brilliant bursts of lights, whistles, crackles, and the bombettes of crackerjacks and loud reports from bangers, which echo throughout the evening. What excitement as their barrages light up the sky. Later we take a walk along the promenade to watch the many fires burning and to see the fireworks reflected upon the rippling water.

December draws in with its deeper hoar frosts – gardens and trees drip like diamonds. If only they were real. Rugged up for the day in a thick woollen vest and knickers, a thick white shirt, tie, woollen jumper and skirt and thick woollen socks. We sit to a breakfast of thick milky hot porridge and buttered toast covered in marmite or honey followed by strong cups of milky hot tea. Duffle coat, scarf, gloves, thick shoes or boots and we are ready to face the day outside. We head to school through cold whirling sleet or choppy winds that pierce the flesh. The play-ground had become a place of slippery slides, frozen puddles, and running children with scarfs and hats adrift and glowing faces. After school, the shops are filled with a golden light, an Alladin’s cave of treasures as we peer into windows. The warmth tingles our skin as we enter the sweet shop to select from the array of goodies on the penny or twopenny tray.

The countdown begins as twenty five pieces of white paper are stuck to the mantle shelf and one by one they disappear until only one remains. Wreaths appear on doors and Christmas lights in decorated shop windows. Our excitement increases as Christmas draws nigh and during the first week of December our tree is lovingly decorated with little houses that light up, shiny balls and tinsel – always the best in the Street. We rug up to go Carol Singing with trumpet and recorder in hand. Three joyful voices raised in celebration and anticipation as we collect pennies and sixpences and sometimes if we sing and play well, half a crown. At the end of the evening the proceeds are split and stored in money boxes to be spent on Christmas gifts and sweets.

Finally, the day arrives and we awake in the dark early morning. I hear my brothers' screams of delight as they open their present at the end of the bed. We run downstairs excitedly to the kitchen where we find our stockings hanging from the mantlepiece. Our eyes are aghast at the balloons hanging from the corners of the room, the holly over the doors and streamers draped from corner to corner. Over breakfast we explore our stockings carefully and spread it around us on the table, eyeing each-others gifts. Once the table is cleared, the washing up done we move to the parlour where a fire burns merrily and we are finally allowed to open our sackful of presents that sit beneath the tree. A new brown leather satchel, a thick woolly jumper, dolls and games and numerous toys - a child's dream fulfilled! The smell of roasting turkey pervades the house, and we are surrounded by a quiet happiness and natural good cheer as the dulcet voices of Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby sing out their Christmas wishes.

Later in the morning our Grandparents would arrive and we would sit at a decorated paper tablecloth table where alongside each setting sat a cracker. We would eat a plateful of turkey with sage and onion stuffing, roast potatoes, and vegetables followed by Christmas pudding, custard and ice-cream. We would pull the Christmas crackers, read out the jokes to one another with merriment and sit with our party hats on. Later in the afternoon after the adults had cleared up the table and kitchen they would sit and sleep as we children played with our new toys or watched a film. For tea we’d join our Great Grandmother and Uncle and Aunt next door and numerous other family members where more presents would be given and received. We’d play roulette and cards, gambling with pennies and later we’d have a buffet of cold turkey and ham, followed by mince pies and Christmas cake. A wonderful day in childhood eyes.

January slowly moves in and we occasionally awake to crisp, clear mornings of fog. The sun lies low in the sky and shadows are long but the sky is blue and the air brings a flush to the cheeks and a quickness to the breath and a liveliness to the spirit. There is nothing more beautiful on a clear and frosty morning looking across a garden covered in a hoar frost towards frosty leaves sparkling in the morning sunlight. But the dark, dank days of iron clad clouds that lower and groan with the wind abound.

We set off for school. Snow is on its way. The day gets darker as we look through classroom windows as one thick snow flake appears followed by another and another, silently slipping from the sky until a white curtain falls and drapes the view. We see the first flakes lie and within minutes the playground is fluffy white. Excitement in the classroom and we are urged to settle but our eyes wander from the blackboard as the snow still drifts silently from the sky. We know we will be leaving early. Wrapped up and released we are told to head for home quickly. My brother’s await and the three of us agree that we head for the beach. All sounds are muffled, nothing moves. Above us we hear the creak of tree boughs as the snow builds up. There is no one around and little traffic. The cars that pass us slip and slide and disappear into the ever-falling increasing snow. We are entombed in a silent snow clad world. We pass many lighted windows, our feet making deep tracks in the snow. We catch snowflakes with our tongues. The beach is deserted. The sea laps with a muffled sound. There is nothing but whiteness above and whiteness below. The snow covers the pebbles. We build a huge snowman. Pebbles become his eyes, nose and mouth and we laugh and play snow fights as the afternoon drifts onwards but still the snow continues to fall. Tired of the snow we head for home, it’s hard to move through the snow and it is waist high on our little brother. Paul carries him piggyback style while I struggle with two satchels. Our walk home is long and tiring and Carl is crying with the cold. As we near our house we spot our mother, rugged up like a round fat Santa. She berates and hugs us and tells us how mad she is but we know she loves us and is just concerned in her anger and worry. We enter the house, with its blazing fires and warmth, our boots and coats are removed and are hung on pegs where they steam and drip in the warmth of the kitchen range. Our hands are rubbed and we sit down to a warm soup and hot bread. Silence abounds inside and out. There will be no school for days as the snow continues to fall throughout the night and we become marooned in a land of white.

February moves in with its high winds and rough seas and its thunder and lightning as the thick clouds clash and rattle. We are told that the Vikings and their gods stalk the heavens above and are battling their foes and we shiver in anticipation of the further cracks of thunder and forks of lightening. Slowly the days lighten and the winds become warmer our heavy clothing lightens. As children, we never wished away the winter, it was one of the most exciting seasons of our childhood, to us it was a season filled with magic.

It’s not long ago that this happened to me. I’m not sure if it is a dream of something else. Anyway, I will tell it to you and let you decide. I was travelling in the country and we stopped overnight. During the night I awoke suddenly and felt something heavy pressing on my chest. I couldn’t move; I couldn’t do anything. I thought I was in that state between awareness and sleep, you know when suddenly you wake up and get the feeling that someone is in the room with you or sitting on your chest and you are totally paralysed. This was almost like that but I didn’t get the feeling of a nearby presence. I tried to move, tried to call out but my throat was unable to make any sound. My heart was beating rapidly when all of a sudden I felt my body disintegrate into what seemed a million/billion particles though my mind remained intact. My totality was present even in its broken pieces. I seemed to travel at an enormous speed when suddenly everything came to a stop and I came back into myself.

There was a sinking feeling in my stomach, like the one you get when you’re on a roller coaster. I was floating in space. I could see the stars above and below me. I could see earth – it was so beautiful and it glowed with a living light. I felt so free. I told myself I was dreaming and that any moment I would wake up but nothing happened. I was able to freely move my limbs and head and although I could move I was somehow confined in the space where I floated. My perspective was rather odd, there were no walls, yet there were. Place and distance ceased to be of interest. My mind was perceiving my surroundings in a different light. Space was still there but it had begun to lose its meaning. I began to feel really nauseous and vomited. It was strange to see the vomit float from my mouth, breaking into separate pieces. It was almost beautiful in its movement! The nausea didn’t ease up and I felt angry with myself as I wanted to enjoy this freedom of floating.

Shimmering apparitions moved around me, I felt their touch, which was gentle almost butterfly-like. My body was restrained within their grip. I felt movement within my body – there was no pain - I was terrified of the movement within myself. It almost felt as if someone had their hands within me and were shuffling my insides around. The movement ceased. I was panting hard, my nose was clogged- when I felt the movement within my mind. I can only describe it as a wormlike movement. Everything felt clearer, brighter. I felt profound changes in consciousness and as I made connections, my thoughts moved rapidly, my life moved in cinematic colour which was so intense, so intrinsically meaningful, from child to adult. I was capable of remembering my conception, my birth and perceived at the same time everything that was happening in the universe. Life and death became intrinsically bound.

Feelings were awoken within myself. I cried, I laughed. I discovered that there was an inside to experience as well as an outside. For the first time I truly felt myself. I felt everything that made myself. I felt one with everything. I became everything, moved within everything. I became one with myself and with whatever moved within my mind. We were together, we acted and reacted to one another. Sensations, feelings, insights, fancies, information, experiences became an island of shared universes. I was on the verge of the ultimate revelation and felt mutual empathy. My mind became its own place. I as a person did not exist. I became one with the earth, with the stars. It was a wondrous this feeling, a moment by moment naked existence – it was nothing more, and nothing less - a transience that was eternal life. Like myself, a bundle of minute particles, a divine source of all existence. I moved deeper and deeper into meaning. For the first time I understood, precisely and completely my place in the universe. When the wormlike movement suddenly disappeared, I felt sad and bitterly alone. My inner world seemed curiously drab, limited and uninteresting. I was back to my normal self and I felt that my mind had been stripped of colour.

Again, I felt my body disintegrate and travel at fast speed, the stars moved rapidly becoming one when I felt a sudden jolt and came back within myself. I found myself in bed. I could move my arms and legs and I rose feeling faint and weak legged and walked shakily to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I was myself. Other than my face being slightly swollen there were no marks upon myself. I just stared at my image. I gazed without knowing, even without wishing to know what it was that confronted me. I was so completely absorbed, so thunderstruck, pushing my experience into something appalling, something diabolical that it couldn’t be contemplated. I felt myself on the brink of panic. My fear in retrospect was of being overwhelmed with reality.

There was nothing to say that the experience if indefinite duration had been real yet it felt real. I told myself it was just a dream … nothing more than a dream but I wonder …

Winter is a season to itself, not simply the way to spring. Winter symbolises a time to slow down and take stock. It may force us to take the time to see ourselves and others clearly . A cold winter-day can bring us closer to our families if we let it. For me, cold winter days can be a time for rest, play and contemplation, days being snug. For others such cold days can be lonely or constricting, but if we use that time to stop, rest, let go and to simply BE, our lives can take on new meaning. Winter, whether it is a season of the year, a season of our lives, or a season of our souls, is a time to pause. We need the winter in our souls not to enclose us but to give us pause.

On Saturday, the day was crisp, clear, invigorating. The sun was bright, sky blue, and the air brought a flush to our cheeks, a quickness to our breath, and a liveliness to our spirits as we toiled in the garden, sweeping dead leaves from the paths, cutting back overgrown bushes and generally just tidying the garden. There is much to do because we have been a little lazy recently. When it is dull and cold, the weather seems to enfold us in fuzziness; which somehow leaves us out of touch, disconnected from the garden. We feel the ache in our bones and find excuses not to tackle the garden. Some winter weekend mornings, I rise full of vigour ready to meet friends, solve problems, build snow men, and experience new adventures; on others I pull the blankets closer around my ears, shutting out the day. It seems to me, if we choose, our days can be filled with color and variety but the choice is ours to seize the day and how hard it can be just to seize that day at times!

The sky pressed down on Sunday with an almost desolate grimness. In the early afternoon an eerie fog rolled in over Port Phillip Bay closing the airport. Today, the fog has lifted though it is still misty and damp.

There is no doubt that Winter, is a challenge to the spirit. It is always the challenge which draws from us our best. And winter like life is what we make of it. Just as we light fireplaces and candles in the dark of winter, just as we hug one another to drive out the cold, and share stories, just as we share our gifts and invite each other to parties when we feel alone, so it is that the unexpected turns of fate which plague us to one degree or another throughout our lives, provoke us to redefine ourselves. We are summoned to sharpen our skills, to learn new ways of doing things. We are forced to see ourselves in new ways and find new occupations. We learn to accommodate and retaliate until we have carved a niche for ourselves in the world as we have come to know it. Hardship is the source of our creativity. When times are easy and the world is soft, we sit on our laurels and glide; we rarely grow. It is the difficult that calls forth unique response. It is the hardship that deepen us and strengthens our spirits. Our lives and wits are sharpened by the risks we face and the risks we take ...

Do you like spiders? There aren't really many dangerous spiders in Melbourne. The most common dangerous one is called a whitetail and if you get a nip from one, your skin starts to die and you end up getting welty sore type things. We’ve also seen the redback in our garden and these can give you a nasty bite. Contrast this to the stuff they get up in Sydney like the funnelweb, the whitetail and redback seem pretty tame in comparison.

No, Melbourne's spiders tend to go for the psychological angle. Take, for example, the huntsman. It may not be very dangerous, but it's big enough to scare the death out of me everytime and they get the adrenaline pumping mightily.

We’ve had some big ones in recently, (you know the type, huge hairy legs wearing clod hopper boots and as big as my hand!). Sometimes they give me a real scare and I always holler for my husband Terry to come and remove them far preferring them outside than inside. Sometime I think they deliberately lurk on the curtains or suddenly appear on a wall to give me a fright.

Use to have one in our old house whom we nicknamed Fred. Fred lurked but we could never catch him he'd disappear as soon as he saw us. Funnily enough he'd use to appear during dinner parties leering at us from the wall. Gave the ladies quite a fright at times - Terry would just nod and say "that's Fred". Quite a party piece. Except one day one lady felt something crawling up her leg. Thought it was the cats tail - shortly after I saw Fred appear from under the dinner table, making his way across the carpet - he had a big grin on his face. Little devil! Not sure what happened to Fred when we moved. Found him lurking behind a bookcase when the removers were in and Terry rescued him and put him in the garden but I’m sure he would have made his way back inside as he was use to comfort.

A week or two ago I encountered an enormous one in my study at home. It was big enough that I'd swear I could see it grinning at me. I'm pretty sure I could see the hairs on its legs. Then when I summoned up the courage to trap it, it escaped from me - it must have seen me coming and it scampered along the wall to hide behind the curtain.

The other night I saw it again in the hallway. At least I really hope it was the same one - the thought of two such beasts lurking gives me the chills. Reminds me of the time that I woke up having felt something run across my face. I screamed, jumped out of bed and in the process woke Terry. Grumpily he told me not to be so daft but when we moved back the covers guess what we found? A huntsman trying to get comfy! Needless to say we sprayed Baygon in the bedroom the next day. Now Huntsmen are okay outside, but I really don't need them snuggling up to me inside especially in the bed!

You should our moths. They are humungous. Sometimes larger than two hands. We don't see them very often but when they are around you can literally hear them flapping their wings a mile away and when they knock up against the windows you think the house is being attacked. Terry won't kill a thing. Everything is rescued and placed outside. I reckon most our insect neighbours know this and think we are an easy touch and keep coming back.

Mind you, when we saw a family of rats tucking into the sunflower seed on the bird feeding table (when they saw us watching the disappeared very quickly up the drain pipe and into the roof area) Terry soon changed his mind. Nice looking family they were too. But the rustlings in our walls and the thumps on the ceiling told us that things were getting out of hand family wise so I'm afraid we had to put down some rat poison which was a great shame. Within a week things were quiet around the house again.

We often have possum visitors. Saw one last night whilst we were parking our car in the garage. He trotted passed us, glanced at us and continued on his way across the driveway and along the garden as bold as you like. Not a bit scared.

Now these little devils can get into your ceilings and in between walls as well. They are really cute little devils but the problem is they piddle and their piddle has a tendency to stink. Luckily our possums build their nests in the trees that surround us but we still have one or two visitors in the roof. You can hear them lift the roof tiles and start scrabbling around. Sometimes they go absolutely crazy and you hear them running and jumping from one end of the ceiling to the other. Not good when you are tyring to sleep. We had some gutter guard put in and this seems to have helped but they still seem to be getting in. I think they think they roof void is their playing space. At least they don't piddle - now if they started that it would be time to call Peter the Possum Man in who traps and rescues them and then deposits them in the countryside somewhere. Trouble in the possums have a way of finding their way back to their same territory and creating havoc again. Not that they worry us too much ... it's just that when people come and stay they wonder what on earth is going on up in the nether regions of the house. We tell them fear not, it's only our resident ghosts running around!

Last night the sky became dark with churning rolling grey clouds and never ending flashes of lightening. The noise was unbelievable with the thunder and lightening above, we watched the lightening hit the land with a massive crack and dance across its blackness before disappearing. The land and sky became one, a heaving wild fury. We had to hold onto one another to keep standing and we could not hear ourselves speak above the tremendous cacophony. For half an hour or more we remained outside watching and, listening to the storm and becoming a part of the frenzy of nature.

If work permits, during my lunch break, I change in our office gym and take a walk (around 4-5 kms) either in the winter sunshine and chilly breezes or hot summer sun and warm winds. I walk beside a creek and around the suburban streets crunching fallen gum leaves underfoot. The tree-lined streets are always silent - so few people walk and are out and about nowadays. I occasionally see the odd jogger, a dog or two, a person working in their garden but apart from that nobody other than the doves who waddle nonchalantly in the middle of roads. My path always leads me back to the looming bulk of our office - the citadel of intrigue! (“A home for toads and vipers, comatose pythons, disgruntled alligators and forlorn tortoises and such other furtive and intrepid creatures who plot with reptilian stealth”- a zoo indeed!).

The landscape of Melbourne has become extremely wet and wintry. Winds have tossed gum leaves across roads and pavements, especially to collect in driveways! Tangled and drooping vegetation trembles on the cool refreshing gusts. Mountains of grey clouds appear and disappear on the distant horizon threatening more rain in the days ahead! We had a long, hot and very dry summer but we have left the Summer behind, shedding off its cloak of warmth and Winter is now fully upon us.

May was the loveliest of months, the mornings were cool and quiet and the light soft and made hazy by the early morning dampness. The skies remained clear and we experienced some majestic calm. The trees turned golden and russet and walking became a joy, scuffling in the fallen mantle of leaves.

Now in June, the first early evening trials of smoke hang in the air to ward off the chilly nights. There is a sadness about the land as trees stretch their naked limbs skywards. The temperature has dropped quite considerably and there’s now a chill in the air.

Here I sit, watching the stock prices wondering when the next crash will come. The last market crash was in 87 so is another due? But then again let us not dwell on what might happen and try and live in the present.

Sometimes I think morality has walked out the door - it's all about profits nowadays (as no doubt it has always been) and short term fixes to improve the bottom line ie. retrenchments. Which leaves me wondering if companies have a "duty of care" not only to employees but to communities. Small towns suffer as more and more banks close their doors and impersonal service abounds. One almost feels guilty walking into a bank nowadays. Is this progress? What future are we creating when profits become the be-all and end-all? I wonder how history will view us in a couple of hundred years?

History is amazing isn't it - it portrays the rise and fall of civilisations. Will this happen to us? We will outgrow ourselves like the Egyptians, the Persians and the Romans. We will fall as they did and if we fall what comes next? What will rise from the ashes or are we too technologically advanced for it to happen again? Will technology protect us or eventually destroy us?

The future holds such wonders and such disasters yet somehow I truly believe we will survive and make those strides into space to Mars and beyond. Somewhere, someone at this very moment could be creating the technology to help us achieve the ultimate, to move through space with ease and travel at the speed of light. It will be done. Can you imagine yourself being born in such a generation, at such a time? Would I join the ship and emigrate as I did before leaving Britain for Australia? Would I move far from earth to another planet if I was given the opportunity to start a new life? Yes, I would - I would take up the challenge and grab those stars but my heart would always be with my home planet as it is with Britain. Oh how I envy those space walkers of today. To be able to view this planet from the heavens - to see and appreciate its beauty from space ...

So I sit and ponder and dream watching this world slowly turn and plod its way forward knowing what an uncomfortable gait it currently has. Nuclear war threatened in India and Pakistan, the bloodshed growing in Israel and Palestine and continued rumblings on the "War on Terrorism" and of course the great famine which is eventuating in Africa. I pray to God each night asking him to find solutions to these ongoing problems to help those to make wise decisions, to save those that are dying. My voice no doubt one little prayer in an enormous amount of voices.

Does he hear me? Does he feel my pain? See my tears? Am I as He is? Much a part of Him as He is of me? Strangely, I believe He is and hears and sometimes I feel His pain and His presence. Where, I ask myself, does this spirituality come from? I have no idea but it is a part of me and I have a deep belief in God. Yet I am not a Godly person. I'm not affiliated with any Church or group yet within me is something that I can't describe, something so special that it's truly indescribable and so very, very personal. Do others have it? Yes, I'm sure they do but perhaps each of us view what we have in a different ways, perhaps some ignore it, some abuse it, some work with it and just live with it and practice it. Is it a window into our Souls? I don't know, yet sometimes I feel I'm that close to something I truly don't understand. Then again, perhaps all will be revealed as I continue down my path that I am sure has many hurdles and bumps ...

In the midst of these thoughts the Queen’s Jubilee comes to mind. The televised pictures of one million people in the Mall singing "Hey Jude" and waving flags and cheering the Queen will always remain with me. I felt proud and awed and grateful that Britain has come to terms with its Monarchy and I'm sure the Queen herself felt awed and grateful for the shown support and love. Long live the Queen.

What history in the making and what a wonderful four days of celebrations. A beacon of light in an ever encroaching darkness. I felt proud to be British even though I watched it from 'Downunder'.

The celebrations passed Australia by - but then again we are a Nation struggling to stand on its own, continually growing and pulling away from the Mother's strings. Soon, no doubt those strings will snap. Let us hope we do not turn from our British heritage as we have turned from Australia's Aboriginal heritage. We should rejoice not only in our multiculturalism but appreciate and work with the true owners and carers of this land – the Aborigines. We can never turn from who and what we are nor where we sprang from but we should work and accept the spirituality of the land and its stories and its true owners. Between us, the old and the new, we can sing out the songlines and make pathways into the future to bind all of us together. A dream … but may be we can dream of a new future and create a Dreamtime that encompasses us all, not only Australia but the world in general!

Now I'm sounding mystical ... but may be we need more dreams to envision the future ...