Dad’s in his Workshop — All’s right with the World

My family traveled and moved a lot (over great distances) as we grew up. We lived in many homes, but the constants in all these homes were always a sewing table in the lounge room and a workshop out the back or under the house. I write about my mum quite a bit because I still sometimes reach for the space that she left when she passed, but I rarely mention my dad. Because, well, — he’s always there.

My mother used to get restless and go ‘walkabout’. She’d take her car and go places. Sometimes she took us, kids…

Welcome to Country

In the old days, there was no separation between a peoples and the land (Country). The mind did not see oneself as separate from the spirits of ancestors or the spirits of trees, birds, water, or landforms. Country was as sacred and as nourishing, as life reborn, each generation.

A new animal moving across a Country was a gift, whereas another peoples, seeking trade or safe passage, came to with gifts and the blessings of their own ancestors. If safe passage was granted, an elder would simply speak it:

From the Tips of the Trees to the Roots of the…

Transmutation

Tell, me though
What is it that you admire?

Without hesitation
silence
beauty in elegant reserve

It appeared as though
He listened

transmutation.

She felt herself set loose
she spilled forth ideas
long
locked away within her heart

A Poem found hidden on a page, in a book, found in a car park.

I found a book some time ago. A paperback, just lying on the ground, in a car park. I picked it up and wasn't able to find an owner, so I took it home, planning to donate it to charity.

It sat instead, on a kitchen chair, for over a month.

Last week, I opened a page of the book at random…

Before there were stories; before there was we
I watched you in wonder,
thinking, how splendid,
how lovely was me

Before there were names for things; before we did words
I flounced through the garden
delighting in gleaming
the edges of me

And once I had walked an eon alone,
I came to the knowing
that the sound of your voice,
was no longer my own

And that’s when I called you, out of your sleep
and told you that I had become
an Other — apart from you
but yours, to meet.

The real ‘loss of innocence’ was necessary separation

I’ve been thinking about those first interactions…

Sharing is Caring (as they say at Kinder)

Nina is four, and she makes cards. She has a helper who she’s looking to replace. Nonetheless, her helper has put together a video to share her work:

A Note and an Offering from Nina’s helper:

I have Nina’s voice singing in this (recorded on another video months ago) because I had to think about how to actually give her a voice, in something that I was making on her behalf.

I don’t know what the song is, but she always performs it with ‘clapping sticks’, so I’m assuming it’s something that she learned at her Indigenous children's playgroup. …

I don't want stars
or fairy lights
in trees too green
for summertime

coconut snowflakes
or sparkling red wine
Mama, I hurt
I want Big Love

I don’t want more stories
from far away
Some child, not mine
yes, let him be safe,
let him lie warm
by his own mama

Tell me the stories
you used to tell
Your own Big Love
How did you say?

That’s right; my hands, my tiny hands
were your own Big Love
all that you were
and wanted to be —

Mama, I love
I have Big Love

This year I missed my…

For starters, our home —’twas never a shoe.
Only tied to our door, was a boot without laces,
With flowers to sell, to the Little-to-do;
Left by Eliza — who we lost to the races.

Nor were we whipped, or beat with a stick,
There wasn’t the time; far too many to mind.
That idiot Jack, who thought himself quick;
Rhymed for the littlies — and he was not kind.

We were each left alone, in the wild world to fend,
Breadcrumbs didn't matter, we weren't wanted, I fear. …