Tag: nature writing

Tides, Trees and Time

I have lived away from Sydney longer than I ever lived in that city, yet it keeps pulling me back like the tide along its shores. After living elsewhere for twenty five years, I can still find my way around the inner suburbs. I know the backstreets and shortcuts and have even kept up with the new motorways. In contrast, I often get lost in Melbourne, where I grew up. But it isn’t the streets, or their familiarity, that draw me back to Sydney.

This Christmas, I was greeted by flowering frangipanis in a friend’s garden. Their heady, tropical fragrance carried me back to past summers, to easy, carefree days spent on the beach at Nielsen Park or Bronte, inhabiting what seemed like endless summers. We would lie under the generous shade of Morton Bay fig trees, admiring the large, eel like buttress roots that extend several metres from the trunk. These trees are gigantic, with canopies that can reach up to fifty metres. They offer the best escape from summer heat in Sydney, and their large, often gnarled branches allow for endless adventures for children.

Blooming jacarandas are another Sydney hallmark. Every student at Sydney University knew that when the jacaranda bloomed in the Quadrangle, exam time had arrived. It was a favourite place for graduation photos, and I have one of my husband standing beneath the old tree. That tree collapsed in 2016, but it has since been replaced by new jacarandas to continue the tradition.

Southern Sydney suburbs are known for their jacaranda plantings. In the 1950s, Sister Irene Haxton, who worked at the Jacaranda Hospital in Woolooware, gave jacaranda seedlings to new mothers, who planted them in their gardens. Now there are suburbs where almost every garden hosts a magnificent jacaranda blooming in November. The purple flowers form thick carpets along driveways, a stunning sight, even if not always so welcome to the people who live there.

One of my all-time favourite flowers, which grows easily in Sydney, is the gardenia. Like the frangipani, its heavy, sweet perfume is intoxicating. I bury my nose into one of its creamy flowers and swoon, giddy with the pure pleasure of its scent. Unfortunately, gardenias do not cope well with frost, which precludes them from gracing my small garden in Canberra.

I used to return regularly to Sydney for cultural events, concerts and exhibitions, fleeting overnight visits that rarely allowed time to notice the flora I once took for granted. Now I tend to return to see friends, people who have been there through life’s highs and lows. Sydney is where I met my husband, where my daughter was born, and where many loyal friendships were formed.

I have no desire to move back to Sydney, with its stop start traffic and planes roaring overhead. I am much more at home in the slower pace of Canberra. I love its distinct seasons, with vibrant autumns and bracing winters that sharpen my senses. So, it isn’t that I miss Sydney as much as the memories that come alive whenever I visit. Each street, each smell, each tree reminds me of the path I have trodden, the life I have lived, and the friends who have shaped me. Sydney will always be those heady, fecund years of my thirties, when I sowed seeds of love and friendship. Now, in my sixties, I can return and enjoy its full florescence.

Wind struck days

Winds have cut through last week with an invisible scythe. The billabong is covered with dust and debris and smells putrid. Tiny flies swarm around the water’s edge. As I look at the devastation around me, I am surprised there are no trees down. Plenty have fallen in surrounding suburbs.

Leaf litter lies ankle deep, mixed with bark stripped clean from trunks. It is as if Mother Nature has sandblasted her children bare. How did young chicks in those swaying canopies survive wind gusts of 80 kilometres an hour? I’ve not heard a peep from them this morning.

The accompanying storms were short lived but the wind continues to rumble and roar like a road train. The little rain that came with it evaporated within hours, leaving the ground just as compacted and impenetrable as before. Any loose soil has been spun around and around like whirling dervishes in a trance. I am transfixed by the spectacle of dozens of whirly whirlies, small rotating whirlwinds forming across the denuded field.

My walk in town yesterday was miserable. The wind fired bullets of grit at my face and eyes. Its fury whipped up loose items on the ground and hurled them at unsuspecting passers-by. Women tacked their skirts as they leaned into the wind, slicing through the air. Children clung to their parents’ hands, wondering what might happen if they let go.

Back home, windows rattled and walls were buffeted. Further north, roofs and even lives were lost. I never felt any immediate danger, only awe at this force of nature completely out of our control. These past few days have been a reminder that nature is not something separate from us but an integral part of our daily lives. We need only to pay attention to it.

Weekends: The Gift of Time Well-Spent

I’m back at work after two glorious months off. While I was still working diligently on my own projects, the days and weeks had a different rhythm. Often, it was difficult to tell which day was which, as the weeks rolled into each other. There’s a deliciousness about feeling that we are outside of time, but it also has its downsides. Like forgetting about business hours for example and realising that others work on a different set of assumptions about working hours.

Now that I am back in the Monday to Friday world of work, weekends have a special quality to them. I can sleep in, read a book, go to the market and walk my dog at a more leisurely pace than during the week. This morning, I took my dog Zoë to the local café, wrote in my journal, drank my latté and shared a freshly baked croissant with her. Bliss.

Walking back, I took my time and noticed the small things that go unnoticed when on a deadline. Like the slight breeze that caressed my bare arms ever so gently. Entering a copse of trees, I saw the shadow of the leaves dancing on the path beneath my feet. I stopped to watch this shimmer of shadow and light – a performance dedicated to the spectator who chose to notice its exquisite beauty.

Back home I performed all the mundane duties that accumulated during the week. I didn’t grumble or delay, I completed them with a sense of joy that comes from being truly present to miracle of life and all it has to offer. Or as Eckhart Tolle put it,’Always say ‘yes’ to the present moment… Surrender to what is.’

Magpie Mayhem

It’s magpie swooping season. In the past two weeks, I’ve been pecked on my head three times and my dog has had Northrop B-2 Spirit magpies stealth-bombing her from behind. Always from behind. She doesn’t move from my side now when we go near trees, and she looks up nervously at her sworn mortal enemies.

For nine months of the year, magpies are a joy in the neighbourhood. They warble in groups of two or three every morning and know us all by sight. They have excellent facial recognition, and recognise everyone in their patch, which is roughly the size of 30 suburban blocks. Magpies know exactly who is naughty or nice, and they pass on this information to other birds.

I always imagined their warble as a joyous expression of welcoming a new day or singing because they are happy. It turns out I was completely deluded. It takes a lot of energy to sing and warble, which is why most songbirds only do it when they are trying to attract a mate. Magpies, however, continue to sing each and every day and it turns out that it is purely to protect their territory. That lovely warble is hurtling expletives at other magpies within earshot. ‘Stay away or else!’

When I lived in the country, three magpies came to the bird feeder most mornings. They’d eat seeds I had put out for parrots, then throw their heads back in what I thought was appreciation and warbled. I referred to them as the three tenors. I must have watched too many Disney movies where all animals are anthropomorphised and given cutesy human traits, for it never occurred to me they were warding off other birds from their find.

Many years ago, I heard an ornithologist interviewed on ABC radio. He explained that 90% of magpies show no aggression at all and that it is only 10% of males who cause all the trouble during mating season. Tongue in cheek, he claimed Australia would be uninhabitable if all magpies swooped. After my last attack, I can only concur. Still, 10% of magpies are a sizable number. Of these aggressive males, half will attack only pedestrians and/or dogs, approximately 16% will attack only cyclists, 16% will go for posties and 18% will randomly attack anyone they come across. These figures are not made up; attacks have been extensively researched and quantified.

Magpies only ever swoop from behind and only if you are in the vicinity of a nest that has chicks in it. All attacks happen within 50 to 100m of a nest, so the sensible thing to do is to avoid the area once you’ve been swooped. When the chicks finally leave the nest, the male returns to being a placid bird until the following year. The best thing you can do in the meantime is to look at your attacker; a magpie won’t ever attack if it can see your face. The worst thing you can do is to run for your life, because then it will surely come after you. If you are on a bike, get off and walk the next 100m until you are in the clear. And yes, the cable ties on helmets work, not that it will stop the swooping, but at least it stops the frightening experience of a beak making repeated contact with the helmet.

For the next two months, I am avoiding the beautiful gums in my neighbourhood. Still, I walk the dog, greet any magpies I meet in a friendly tone and stay out of their territory. There will be time enough to enjoy a shady walk under the spotted gums once spring has passed. In the meantime, I remind myself that I am the intruder here.

Weather Whiplash

I must have blinked and missed it. A week ago, night-time temperatures were in the single digits but today spring has arrived and daytime temps are in the twenties. Trees that seemed dormant a few days back are suddenly blooming. Not just one or two trees, but rows of trees along streets that appeared bare the last time I looked.

Officially, spring is at least another week away, yet Sydney basked in 27 degrees today. This past year has been the second warmest on record, but fortunately rainfall has been average, at the very least in the Eastern states. Luckily, because bushfire season is starting earlier each year and dry vegetation acts like kindling.

For the 16 years that we lived in the Blue Mountains, every spring brought with it that heart-in mouth feeling as fire trucks raced by. My daughter developed a keen sense of bushfires. She can smell one miles away. This is the inadvertent training young children get who live in fire prone areas. We saw the destruction around us with alarming regularity and knew several people who lost their homes. I never knew the full extent of the effect it had on me until I left.

Unfortunately, it is expected that we will have to endure more heatwaves, extreme conditions in summer and increasingly hazardous weather conditions earlier than ever before and not just in Australia. We will all have to learn mitigation tactics and put an end to being complacent about our impact on the planet. It is high time we stop talking about the weather and work together to actively improve the climate.

Moonlit reverie

Photo by Michael on Unsplash

The moon is pregnant with celestial fire.*  Her belly is full, round and luminous. I can’t stop looking up, admiring her ability to put on this heavenly show every twenty-nine days.

Yet the full moon messes with some people’s minds. Sleeplessness, sleepwalking, and feeling emotionally overwhelmed are some of the negative effects people can experience at this time of the month. It is no surprise that lunacy means madness; people believed the moon was its cause. As is often the case, there is a kernel of truth in this folklore. Recently, a link has been found between symptoms of bipolar disorder and the phases of the moon.

Luckily, I don’t suffer from any of these negative consequences. I am an unashamed Selenophile and could spend hours admiring the moon’s beauty. In ancient times, the Greeks venerated Selene as the moon Goddess. Her name means moon, light and brightness. Had I been born during the Antiquity, I would have worshipped her at every full moon, standing in a field with my hands raised to the heavens. Instead, I signal my adoration by tilting my head towards her belly and let awe course through my body with soothing calmness. I never tire of her beauty or mystique.

However, my fanciful flight into metaphor and personification only works in languages where nouns have no gender or where the moon per chance is considered feminine, such as in French. Had I been writing this piece in German, where the moon is masculine (der Mond), I would have imagined him as a lover, a sentinel or my nighttime companion who would inevitably leave me every twenty-nine days.

*  Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray

A capital fog

Canberra is located at the foothills of the Snowy Mountains, within the Great Dividing Range. Its altitude is 577m above sea level, which may not seem like much by South American standards where cities often sit above 1000m, but it is quite high compared to other cities in Australia and Europe. In fact, Canberra’s elevation is 168m above that of Zürich.

The elevation and the fact that it is a relatively sheltered valley near mountains, allows cooler air to sink and the warmer air to form a blanket above it, especially when there is little or no wind. These are perfect conditions for thick fog to occur. On average, there are around 20 heavily foggy days in winter.

I relish these foggy days which give the city a magical air. I love walking in it, not knowing what is in front or behind me, just focusing on one step at a time. I don’t even mind driving in it, although I admit that I prefer driving in fog when I know a route well. But then I have had years of experience driving in the Blue Mountains, where fog can envelop a valley even in summer.

Canberra airport was built on one of the lowest lying areas in the city. The result is that many flights are delayed and cancelled, especially after 10am when incoming flights can’t land due to the lack of visibility. It does seem like a huge oversight to have located an international airport in one of the worst affected areas in town.

Where I live is only 9km from the airport and it shares its propensity to fog. There are mornings when I can only see shadowy outlines of the trees across the road. When I walk the dog, she disappears ahead of me, and I can confuse markers ahead for people coming towards me. It is a strange, fairy-tale landscape where both time and space seem to conflate. It is muffled and eerie, yet stunningly beautiful and comforting at the same time.

When I worked at Blackheath in the Blue Mountains, I often watched the fog roll in like hay bales on a farm. One would roll up the main street and gather moisture and momentum as it shrouded everything in its path, white as a freshly washed sheet. I’d look out onto the playground and play a game of ‘now you see me and now you don’t’; 350 children there one moment and gone the next.

Fog is an enormous doona spread over the city to make all of us more aware of our senses, to hone our navigation skills and to remind us of the things we can’t control.

It is also a lesson in awe and wonder inviting us to pay close attention to our surroundings. Fog is the winter coat I wear gladly. Wrapped around me, I feel peaceful and lovingly enveloped.

From barren to blooming

Costa Georgiadis argues that no space is too small for a garden. On Gardening Australia, he has presented stories of magnificent indoor gardens and balcony gardens. I never took much notice as I neither had a balcony nor much light inside my house to grow indoor plants. The truth is, while I enjoy visiting beautiful gardens, I am not a gardener. I’m impatient, get frustrated with weeds and find the whole never-ending process akin to cleaning. A boring chore.

One feature I like about my townhouse is its miniature courtyard. I also like the balcony upstairs, but I immediately bequeathed it to the cat, so she had a place to escape from the dog. There was only one problem with that. It looked so desolate with only a cat litter tray and her little trampoline, and I don’t cope well with desolation. It lacked what Germans identify as Gemütlichkeit or what Danes call hygge. No-one bar the cat would want to spend any time there.

I may not enjoy the work that goes into making a patch of green space, but I do value the benefits it brings. Sure, the nature reserve is only across the road, but it turns out I needed something closer than that. I knew there were health benefits that come from spending time in nature and that cities that have more parks score higher on measures of well-being. Maybe that is why Canberra ranked second in the world for a city with the best quality of life. While that is reassuring, I still felt I needed to transform my barren balcony into something more pleasing. As Danielle Shanahan from the University of Queensland said, ‘There is plenty of evidence that you will get a range of benefits even if all you can manage is putting a plant in your room or looking at trees through your window at home.’

Plants don’t have to be sourced from expensive nurseries. I kept a look out for second-hand plants and nice pots and spent a day last weekend driving to people’s houses. I met a woman who propagates proteas, someone else who is moving house and then migrating to Spain and a suspicious person who left me standing in the cold, locking the screen door, while she retrieved the plant from inside. It was an interesting study in human behaviour.

This weekend, I purchased some shoe racks which I am using as plant stands. I cleared the area and began my arrangement. It is still a work in progress, but I am pleased with the results. Now when I look out onto the balcony from my desk, I see freshly planted pots in the foreground and the trees across the road in the nature reserve. It is a perfect place to write.

Early winter

Frosty mornings have arrived, covering the grass in icy, white droplets. The dog’s breath turns to vapour as we make our way across the road to the park. I too can see my breath ahead of me and plunge my hands deep into my pockets. The cold nibbles at my ears and nose, but a down coat keeps the rest of my body warm.

 The dog doesn’t seem to feel the cold. She happily lies on this carpet of frost, frolicking and licking the icy dew. There’s a wild look in her eye and I know she is about to run in ever-widening circles, stretching her body fully with each stride. I watch as she performs her exercise routine with unashamed, abundant joy, and I can’t help but feel a vicarious sense of being fully alive. I admire her ability to be so present that nothing else matters to her at all.

These morning walks before work are now as important to me as they are to the dog. Some mornings, the park is shrouded in fog, and we venture into unfamiliar terrain, uncertain of what we may come across along the way. The trees become mysterious creatures with outstretched arms, ready to catch me should I stumble too close. These mornings I am transported into a fairy tale where inanimate objects take on human form in the distance, only to turn back into posts or small bushes when I come near. It never feels menacing, but laden with the promise of some adventure.

The black swan that had appeared one day on the billabong has continued its journey.  I wonder where they fly for winter. Only the ducks are left and a cormorant or two. Even the magpies seem quieter in the morning now, or am I imagining this? In any case, the park has taken on a different feel; it is quieter, and the colours are muted. The park is now in calm repose.

My day continues with work hours, obligations, and errands. By late afternoon, I feel the urge to visit again before the light fades completely. I take the dog for her second walk of the day, this time with greater urgency and less time to reflect. Despite my desire to be there, the walk becomes perfunctory. I’m thinking about cooking dinner and jobs that still need to be done before the day is out. Other people in the park seem harried too. Everyone wants a bit more time outside before the light fades completely.

Back home, I can just make out the outline of the canopies. Soon, the inky black sky will blanket the city. The day, with all its cares, is over. A brand-new walk awaits us in the morning.

Haig Park – Canberra

One of the enjoyable aspects of moving to a new city is discovering what others take for granted. Since moving into my daughter’s unit in Braddon while my place undergoes a facelift, I’m seeing this suburb with fresh eyes.

As a visitor, I had been to Haig Park several times, usually to visit the Sunday morning markets. Now that I live across the road, I have quite a different relationship with it. As I need to take my dog down several times a day to do her business, the park is perfect for a quick comfort stop or a longer run off leash. We have met several dogs and their owners, some chatty, others rather off-hand. Humans that is, never the dogs.

The park has a rather curious design. It runs the length of two suburbs and is 1780m long. It has 14 rows of trees, planted equidistant from each other, giving it more of a feel of a state forest. The plantings of pine trees reinforce this, although on closer inspection, there are four different species of trees which all have their own dedicated rows. Where I am, I can see Italian Cypress, Pin Oaks, and Deodar Cedars, but there are also Argyle apple trees and Radiata Pines. The row upon row of trees gives it a rather eerie feel at night, especially as the lighting is virtually non-existent. I certainly wouldn’t venture across it in the dark.

During the day, it is a much friendlier place, although it still feels odd to be walking up and down in straight lines between trees. This made me wonder about the history of the park, as many of the trees are quite old. A little research yielded the answer to its odd design. It was originally planted as a windbreak in 1921 when Braddon and Turner were fledgling suburbs and needed to be protected from the dust and wind battering it from the north. I can’t imagine Braddon being a fledgling suburb as it is now as close as you can get to the centre of the city.

I haven’t explored the Turner side of the park yet. But I have discovered a couple of interesting things at the Braddon end. The first thing I came across were two metal cabinets that are attached to a pole. The cabinets aren’t locked and unfortunately, this means that possums and crows regularly raid the contents and leave them strewn. A notice attached to the top of one of the cabinets describes their purpose. They are there for food donations for anyone in need. Despite the clear instructions to only use it for non-perishable items, people still leave bread that gets eaten by local wildlife. It also makes a mess around the cabinets. It is a shame that great initiatives often have unwanted consequences.

A little further across the park, I came across a labyrinth. This was an unexpected delight. Unlike other labyrinths I have walked, this one is in the shape of a hand. It is called the Ngala labyrinth. Ngala is the Ngunnawal word for tree. At first, I thought it looked a little too simple compared to the Chartres design. However, walking the labyrinth, I discovered its own beauty. The centre is within the palm, which of course has echoes Proverbs 30.4 ‘God holds us in the palm of his hand.’ But there are also reverberations within Buddhism, Taoism and Yoga where the palm is associated with subtle energy or chakras. Then there is also the connection to fortune telling and palmistry. Clearly, there is a long spiritual tradition which treats the hands as a metaphor. Walking this labyrinth, I felt at peace and grounded upon the land I was on, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of Lonsdale Street just a few hundred metres away.

To see the world with fresh eyes is a gift that moving to a new place offers. It is my sincere wish that this stage has longevity so that I may continue to be observant and approach my surroundings with childlike curiosity.