The Horses Have All Gone

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The horses have all gone now
Set free to run and roam
Beyond the shallow boundaries
Of a life much less their own.
So blindly they run through
The winds and dust of time,
Coats glistening with dampness –
A hot and moving shine.

Their eyes are wide and focused on
Some inner destination;
Calm purpose flowing from within
The depths of their creation.
The thunder carved by ragged hooves
Cuts pathways across the sky
And lightning reflects an openness
Of heart and mind and eye.

I remember sharing distant youth
In the wisdom of their gaze,
But the past has come to claim them back
And they fragment in the haze…
The dust has settled slowly
And the horses have all gone
Though somewhere in my landscape
Their memory lingers on….

(wendy slee)

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Big Skies, Bush Tracks, Feathers and Reflections …

Every time I set foot outside my home, no, probably every time I open my eyes or my mind, a story awaits me.  It seems my life is one of constant stories, layers upon layers settling in across time, and always, all ways, bleeding through to this present moment.  Everything I see evokes stories for me or tells me yet another one to add to the journal of my existence.

I thought I would try to share one story per week, with the images that inspired the memories or the inner dialogue or the secret whispers from beyond.   All of these things will be within a short journey from my home… a day “trip” if you will…..

 

Big Skies, Bush Tracks, Feathers and Reflections…

Big Skies over home

I stood on the hill and felt the sky overwhelm me.   It truly did reach out and embrace the whole landscape, as if invisible hands were unfurling a blanket way up in the heavens – it felt as if any moment it would drift down slowly and settle over all I surveyed, painting all beneath with its patterns and ever-changing designs – that undeniable bold blue that is so much a part of Australian life.   I stood on that hill feeling diminutive, and yet grateful for eyes to see.

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As I continued to walk, looking upwards, it became a “thylacine sky” showing the face of the swamp dog and his striped curves, a salute to the respect and dedication this family feels towards the most mysterious of our Aussie marsupials.

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At the top of the hill, behind my parents’ home is a protected patch of bush that every year offers the most fascinating array of wildflowers and orchids….. through this area weaves a beautiful little bushtrack, naturally cobbled with the coffee rock or coloured ironstone that is the foundation of these ranges, a track that holds so much life and colour in the present and yet so many stories and memories from the past. This is the path I take today.

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As I walk, I am reminded of a young wife, transported from the comparable comforts of England, where she had worked for noble families, and propelled into the most raw, unknown territory half way across the world, with her husband and soon to be born, baby daughter.   She walks this path and stands on this ground, the allocation given by the government of the day, and gazes around at the humble bush timber and hessian home – a simple one room “humpy” with dirt floors, completely at the mercy of elements so different to any she had known back in the “mother country”.  All around are the thick trees, many of which watch over me now, even as they did to this woman almost a century ago, all around are the unfamiliar sounds and smells of the bush, the melodic bird calls, intermingled with raucous screeching of cockatoos and other native birds; all around is the dense, amost suffocating bush with its ever present dangers and infinite secrets of the most ancient culture in the world.

Here on this hilltop patch of white sand, in the midst of the many rocky outcrops, it would have looked very different than it does today.   I felt the despair and the sweat, and the gritty discomfort of everyday living…. I felt the lure and warmth of neighbours and the sparse social occasions that seemed to be the very opposite of what she would have known in her previous life with family and gentry.   The simple act of making a cup of billy tea for her husband, or damper scones, when he came in from milking their tiny but precious herd of cattle, would have seemed the only link with the past, but minus the silver trays and fine china. Perhaps some tea cups and lace doilies had travelled with her in her hope chests from England?   But remembering my Grandmother as I knew her, in her little house in town sixty years later, those memories and rituals of life with gentry still remained, the tea service, the silverware polished and perfectly placed, the fine china cups and saucers and the every present manners and etiquette, the indomitable self-discipline, the work, the measured balance of all things.   It was evident that the harsh environment that she had been uprooted into did little to erase her decorum and innate respectability or need for order.

I wish I could have been a guest in her humble home back then.

Though maybe I was….. in another life….

 

I pictured her walks along this track either on foot or or horseback, to visit with the nearest neighbours, my great grandparents, or on her way into town, to purchase stores and supplies from the sailing ships… or to attend services at the local place of worship.

 

My Grandmother, age 26, with her horse near the bush track I still walk through today.

My Grandmother, age 26, with her horse near the bush track I still walk through today.

 

Even as an older lady, the genteel white haired Grandmother we all visited, her favourite piece of advice to we of the younger generations was to “crack hardy”.   We giggled and joked over that line, or even at times took offense because we had wanted sympathy or support and found very little in her scant dismissive words. There seemed so little empathy, so little recognition for what we might be suffering at the time, yet time has shown me she had only shared what she knew. When did she learn for herself that this was the only way to overcome life’s hardships and challenges, to bury the emotions beneath a tough exterior and soldier on?

Was it during World War 1.when they brought news that her fiancé had been killed, leaving her to grieve without the man she loved and the future they had planned together?   Was it her time working in the munitions factory and driving the trains there, setting her apart with     that which was certainly not “womens work”. Was it when her fiance’s brother married her and brought her from her family and all that she knew to this rugged, inhospitable country to stand beside him and carve out a life for themselves and their new baby girl with little but their bare hands and inner strength?

 

Was it the day she hurried along this track, distraught, carrying her little baby, with tears in her eyes and fear in her heart, seeking the neighbours on the farm down the track to help her, because her husband had not emerged from cleaning the small well near their house?  I picture the devastation with which she would have stood this ground when his lifeless body was pulled from the well and the cold hard realization that she and her tiny daughter were now alone in this unforgiving landscape. Oh yes, this woman sure did know from an early age, what “crack hardy” meant and how her life revolved around that mantra.

 

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Today I walk this path again and think of my Grandmother.   She would then have walked this path many times in the days following that tragedy, to find company and solace with her neighbours, my great grandparents – both Salvation Army officers. And perhaps the walk along this path eventually brought the promise of romance or at least companionship from their son, who she eventually married, joining their properties and their lives to lay the foundations of the family farm I know today.

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Now all that remains of their story are a few broken stones in a ploughed, cleared paddock, pieces of the foundations of the original dairy and other buildings…. and the pathway between the Ifound and Slee properties where my Grandmother walked, and the memories that linger along that stony track.

 

The site of their home and farm, and the well where her first husband died, is very close to the meeting place on the hill, the significant site where the energy of lives and families far older than my own still linger and whisper in the trees and in the air. I wonder at how disturbed the ancestors would have been to see the European farm unfold on their traditional communal grounds and whether their disturbance was manifested in any way towards the hardships felt by those first settlers.

I hear my dark skinned sister whisper “It was odd to see people settle in one place to live, and try to stay still and survive throughout the seasons fixed to one location. It seems so inflexible and limiting.  Moving with the seasons and the sky time is wiser in this land and enhances survival and quality of life”.

 

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Today, the ancient meeting place remains. If you look hard, you might see circles of stones from ancient fires beneath the leaves and debris of the bush.   Are they ancient fire circles, often in clusters with a main one and smaller ones nearby?   Or merely the circle of stones left long after an old tree has fallen and been burned or rotted back into the soil?  I caution myself not to see something that is not there, but at the same time, the feeling that there is way more than I can ever see embedded in this landscape, is evident in every cell of my body.

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And are the marked trees actually “scar trees”?   Century old jarrah trees bear the telltale cut marks that could indicate the work of hands of from hundreds of years ago.

 

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I stand beneath the trees and there at my feet is blood splattered on the leaves of the forest floor. Bright red drops and formations paint a picture in the debris of the forest.

 

Who is it that bleeds their silent pain and the hardship of their existence into the ground? Who shares such sadness, evident for only those with eyes to see?

 

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The ancient redgum towers above me and defies the adversity and interference of humanity, by displaying its life story against the sky.

 

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I walk on, following another overgrown track through the bush. It leads me to a waterhole, manmade with machines, but one which taps into the sacred underground water of the Yarragadee. This area abounds with places where the water rises to the surface or emerges from the earth and flows from the Whicher Ranges towards the ocean in Geographe Bay.

 

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At first glance, it is like a window in the baked end of summer ground, a giant hole full of trees and sky that reach downwards into the Earth infinitely.

 

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There is a sense of age and mystery about these water holes, for all that they have been man made.   My Father divined this (and many others on this farm)  using a stick, being guided to find water by the energy of the land, being shown where the underground spring flowed and how deep.   Being in tune with the Earth is such a powerful gift.  Here at the water’s edge, it is possible to feel the whisper of the spirits and know you are being watched by many eyes, here and beyond.  Being respectful of the water that is sacred to all life, becomes second nature when in the presence of such energy.

 

But the reflections are quite beautiful and painterly and reflect so much more…

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I know the swamp dog comes here to drink, I have always felt his presence at this place.   My eyes do not see him, but every nerve in my body tells me he watches.   There is a constant aura of the unknown here.  His footprints are in the sand, his energy ripples along these pathways.   Together with the kangaroos and emus, the foxes and rabbits and birds, he shares this water supply with the less than “native” creatures of the farm, as the water is piped away to tanks and troughs for cattle, dairy and homes.

 

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I am always grateful for fresh water, for the Yarragadee that is the life blood of this land….  Reflections abound…..

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This old tree stood lush and flourishing and unique, a work of art bearing testiomony to the survival and endurance of Mother Nature.

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Sixteen months ago, it created a whole different display of beauty and art against a night sky and I thought that would be the end of its “life”.

 

 

 

 

 

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But in true aussie style, it has prevailed to continue writing its story against the sky and the backdrop of the bushland.

Amazing transformation isn’t it!

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As I walked for home, a feather caught my eye laying on the ground…. a fluffy whispy little messenger blowing in the wind like a flag, against a blade of dry grass. I wondered briefly at what it signified, but smiled, and walked by, quietly acknowledging its intricate beauty.

But a few steps further along, a flash of green blue caught my eye and another feather demanded my attention with its colour therapy splash.

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“That’s two!” I thought as the feathers pointed me in a certain direction….. “I wonder what three will be”…. and sure enough there ahead of me on the ground was an amazing gift.

 

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…. a wedgetail Eagle feather!   I stood there for a moment feeling really blessed.   And walked back along the way I had come to revisit the trail of feathers.   There was something in being called to follow a path however small and seemingly insignificant.   As I stood there in the open paddock with the wind blowing gently, the rush of feathers in my mind, there was an eery silence, then loud crashing in the bush where I had been a few minutes earlier.   The crashing got louder, it was not the sound of a kangaroo thumping its way through the forest. It sounded like tree branches falling. I felt a prickling sensation again of being watched, and then, there was more crashing. I could not see what was there but I truly felt a presence and decided it was time to go home.

 

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I followed the trail of feathers again, this time there seemed to be more, crow feathers, parrot feathers etc… until I picked up the Eagle feather…. it was one of the many gifts of the day and saying “thank you”,  I carried that home with me.  I wondered if all those years ago, my Grandmother might have walked this same path and marvelled at feathers or tiny transient pieces of natural art but I knew that regardless, there were many before me who had done this and more, and left their footprints across this hillside….

I wondered too, if somewhere in the distant future, another woman might do the same, pausing to sense and reflect upon my own invisible footprints left indelibly behind as stories  and memories in this place…..

 

Thanks for sharing this this journey with me

Cavalia

Passion

For every little girl who dared to dream of that prince on a white stallion, or of flying free on the back of a galloping horse with her beautiful dress trailing in the wind; for every little boy who ran across open fields with a stick in his hand, dreaming of being an explorer or warrior, or who hid under the bed and lost himself in a storybook of romance and daring; for every lost or lonely child who imagined dancing to music that gave them wings, or whispering into the warm hide of their own horse, its curious breath blowing promises and secrets onto their neck……

This is for you….

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There’s a secret place inside each of us, hidden from the world, where every time we have a dream or entertain a heartfelt wish, or even feel a ray of hope or desire for that special something in life to kindle the spirit or arouse the heart, it gets stored away.  No matter how elusive or intangible, or how quickly our conditioning denies or rejects our secret hopes and dreams, this space inside us saves them to become part of our unwritten story.

Most of us are not even aware we do this or where we keep our dreams and wishes locked away.  Most have had them buried deep for too long, or darkened and dulled by pain, grief or stress and the tedious nature of our everyday lives.  As children we dip in and out of this inner treasure trove, a kaleidoscope of the imagination that our hearts know so well how to turn, yet sadly, by the time we reach adulthood, most of us have forgotten how to access that place or even that we ever had such a library of the soul’s joy.

But what if the key was found to unlock that collection of dreams that we have carried forever, and set them free to play?

What happens when you open your heart to release all of the dreams you had as a little girl or boy, together with the wishes you have collected along the way into adulthood….the moments that caused your heart to swell, your dreams to awaken, your spirit to rise up and remember?   And you paint these dreams and memories with colours and light, and set them free to dance to a drum beat and some music?

One word – Cavalia!

There on that stage – the passion, the dance, the music, the colour, and the very art and magic I inhaled, became the keys to unlock the true joy in every cell of my being  – and I exhaled my awakening in the form and grace of Equus.   When human hearts and horse hearts express themselves together, there is an alchemy that releases all the collective dreams of the human soul.   You cannot remain unmoved, you cannot be untouched when held in the vision of a horse.  The thunder of hooves, the beat of a drum, the rhythm of awakened heartbeats, weave together the cadence of life’s journey.  It was so simple and yet so powerfully effective.

As I stepped into the darkness of the tent, my heart quickened.  And fell in time with the drums…. And the lights played seductively across the stage and from the shadows the first horse appeared, with his rider…. And the door to my secret collection of every wish or dream I had ever known, blew wide open.

So I relinquished the world outside and its cares, and I became all I had ever dreamed ….

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I stared into a horse’s dark eyes, and became the dream.

I am the manes and tails flying, the eyes flashing and the galloping hooves; I am the beautiful woman in a flowing outfit, scarves and silks swirling, floating through the air, suspended in aerial grace; I am hanging precariously from my charging horse, hair wild in the breeze, freedom in every wave that ripples behind me, divine, feminine power surging before me…I am confident and I am loved …
I am entwined with equine majesty that lifts me high above all else; I am the strong, agile man, leaping onto my horse and smiling with humour as I guide my steed with firm hands and capricious manner…I am the warrior, the cowboy, the lover, the clown … I am the love letters blowing in the breeze behind dashing hooves, the chivalry, the honour … I am the romance, the spark, the passion that sails between hearts on an endless tide…

I am the music, the sweet high notes and the lows, the rise and fall, the longing, the heartsong reverberating in unspoken promises and long forgotten dreams…. I am the tenderness, the connection, the silent language of the spirit that is life’s gift to itself…  All this and more – I become, awakened and released from that dream sanctuary within.  I am the noble hearts of horses dancing with humans like an ancient rite of passage – and in all this, I reclaim what the unforgiving world has almost stolen from me. 

My inner Cavalia is illuminated.   Reflected soul deep in a horse’s eye … I rediscover who I am.

 

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Stories – Everyone has one, Everyone IS one….

Stories

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Life is a story, emerging, unfolding, evolving.

In the relentless hand of time

The words are written on the landscapes of our childhood

And flow beside our footprints ever after.

Words are not necessarily written on a page but etched into time… OUR time.   Our story, our time, nobody else’s.

They are the breaths we take, the moments we absorb, the thoughts and feelings we express and the awareness that we have for our existence, our being, our presence.

Each of us, is a book unwritten,

We are living stories, and these stories will remain long after our last breath fades…

More so because we have shared them with another.

But the existence of our story is real and valid, regardless of who else might get to hear it…..in fact, it exists because we do, and not because of anyone else who reads it.  We are both the writer and the reader.   No one else is required.

Really.

(but of course, while not necessary for us to write, the reader or listener does help to clarify or even justify our storytelling….. because we are after all, sharing beings….)

And where once we might have sat around a communal campfire with family and friends and told our stories by the firelight, today we sit alone before the glow of our computer screens and share our stories around a cyber campfire that extends to all corners of the world and directly unites and warms countless members of the human race.

Fire, Urban and Commercial development, Dieback, Disease and Climate Change

So today I had the grand privilege of being interviewed by a woman wishing to write my biography as part of her university degree.  It felt a little strange at first – “who am I to be written about for such an important project!” – then we began to talk about our experiences, recognizing a common thread within each other’s lives as well as the unique and colorful threads that entwined them and made them distinctly personal, and so the joy of sharing and chatting freely became the order of the day.  Then the concept of stories unfolding lay on the table between us like an open book, and a new chapter emerged along with the words and pictures of that evolving book.

It was both confronting and enlightening to try to describe my life – WHO I AM – to a stranger who had never met me before.   And to use those stories to explain my journey as an artist, to illuminate the meaning of my existence and the ongoing exploration of who I am and what I am here for, became as much, if not more, a gift to me, as it was a contribution to this lady’s work.

My childhood, the patterns that weave throughout my life….. while so unaware at the time, now with the clarity of hindsight, I see so clearly how these storylines are so strong and powerful and such  a part of who I am.   My love for nature, for animals, for Aboriginal and ancient culture, for writing, music and visual images……. These are the things that intrinsically define me, explain ME and place me firmly in this life – they are at the core of my being.   The patterns emerged during the interview, and became more clear through the telling to another.

If traditional culture, writing and imagery, as well as an affinity with nature, were my longitude, then my children, my relationships and my life lessons wove between them as the latitude that made up the dimensions of my world.

Marking my place in time and space at any given point in my journey, was simply a matter of searching out the coordinates of what was happening for me and the discoveries and joys I was immersed in.   A virtual GPS for my existence!  And today I got to explore, and remember and share some of those points and dimensions.

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A moment in the Tearooms….

“That was a nice welcome!” said the man who had just entered the tearooms with his wife.

“We always welcome everyone here,” said Brenda, “We laugh and shout and chat.”

“Have you seen our menu?” she added as they viewed the cake fridge.  “It’s out on the verandah….”

“Oh we’ll have to go back out to view it” said the customer.

“Well then,” laughed Brenda, “You’ll get another welcome when you walk back in!”

I love being in this place!

Art on Display

Art on Display

4th april 2013

 

The quiche was very rich(e)

The frittata was a starter

But the Caesar salad was a little pallid

The egg and bacon pie was never shy

But I had a hunch about the ploughman’s lunch

The classic BLT would be tasty by the sea

And the leg ham and mustard sandwich

Would have done some damage

If I’d come from Putney I would have enjoyed the cheddar and chutney

But I skipped all that AND ATE THE CHOCOLATE CAKE!

Paul

Sorrento

 

We always look forward to our cosy little interludes at this very quaint little place.

Friendly faces

Fabulous food

We will return to the Old Post Office Café

Vin and Jude Dawes

9 april 2013

2 april 2013

Scones, jam and cream – excellent

Coffee and tea the same

Music even better.

Better than anything in Melbourne

Terry and Jenny (Phillip island Vic)

 

2 April 2013

The “Old Post Office”

What a find!

There we both stopped off and dined.

What a place to go and see

Great “Darjeeling” and a “tasty BLT”

We’ve far traveled and nothing did it lack,

Hope one day we can soon return back.

Most enjoyable

Jim and Isabel Laird

Hamilton, Scotland

 

 

5th april 2013

 

Very relaxing outlook – scones were delicious –

Could sit here all day and watch the world go by!

Ben and Pam (Perth)

Siblings Week Busselton 

9th April 2013

We came to Busselton to stay awhile

Let’s have ice coffee with a smile

Then along the jetty for a walk

Where we will laugh, joke and talk.

Brother John will be on his phone

Either with son Mat or wife Julie at home.

Sister Beth knows she is alive

Having a rest from her children, five.

The big sister – that is me

Always making a cup of tea

Waiting for Deb to arrive from Perth

Then we’ll be here as we were at birth.

John, Ruth, Deb and Beth

 

 

Story Week

10th April, 2013

Came to Busselton for a quiet break after babysitting 3 and 4 year old Grandchildren.

We are weary and need relaxation.

1st night I fell down some stairs, grazed arms, banged head, great start.

2nd day, pain and bruises in places I didn’t know I hit.  

Thanks so much to hubby for looking after me.

Give back the babysitting.

Sitting outside The Old Post Office enjoying a milkshake

And the cool breeze helps.

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Strawberries may come

And in jam they go

A coffee and love shared

Like the tides and life

Ebb and flow

A.S.

 

If you woke up in a bed today,

With a roof over your head and

Food in your fridge,

Then you are very lucky!

Maybe it’s time to think of someone in need!

How about putting a smile on someone else’s face today.

N.

Travelled all the way from Geraldton

To visit Busselton, to have nice sunny days.

So then to visit this nice lovely, inspiration, darly gorgeous café shop

Well worth the trip.

See you again

Tracey

A Place of My Own

The Medicine Woman

THE MEDICINE WOMAN

She started the day with a prayer, her face to the Morning Star
As the pink glow of a sunrise touched her from afar.
“Hau, Tunkasila Ksapa” her old voice softly said.
(Hello, Star of Understanding) and in greeting, nodded her head…
“Thanks for this day. Let me do my best, today for all my relations.”
And she nodded again acknowledging the infinite Star Nations.

The day was young, she walked alone down to the water’s edge,
Where the girl, not yet a woman, came to hear the words she said.
“Grandmother” was what she called her, but she was so much more…
The Healer, Teacher and Wise One, who had walked many lives before.

‘Teach me your magic “Unci”, I wish to be like you,
To walk the path of the healer, to Great Spirit to be true.’
The old woman sat down quietly, placed her basket on the ground;
Told the girl to place her hand inside, and tell her what she found.

‘But Unci, the basket’s empty’ she said with great concern.
But the wise woman simply smiled and said ‘You have much to learn.
We all have empty baskets on the day that we are born,
But the road we walk will offer us the tools we’ll need from thereon;
And our inner eyes and spirit will show us what we must find.
Each lesson brings us a knowing, to be carried deep inside.
And every year and season has some fruit for us to bear –
You must place it in your basket and keep it safely there.
Listen with your heart’s ears, to the words the Spirit’s speak.
You may be a simple woman, but you are never small or weak.
For we are the mothers and the teachers. We nurture and keep the flame,
The future life of all Tribes flows through a Woman’s veins.

So take up your own small basket – gather what Spirit guides you to,
For what you keep as medicine – will be what life gives to you.
See here!  Here in my basket! You may not see so much,
But it carries woman’s wisdom, and the love of Mother’s touch.
It holds the gifts of Mother Earth, of fire, water and air,
The medicine she has given me is an honour that I share.
In here you will find the prayers and the stories that I tell,
There is forgiveness, love and kindness – the tools that serve me well.
There’s remembering to smile, when winter winds blow long and cold,
And giving thanks for every day, each moment, young or old.
There is wisdom, and compassion – such magic I have learned.
All things that I have gathered, as the wheel of my life turns.
There is the honour for the Ancient Ones, and all they bring to me
For the present, past and future, are all a part of who we be.’

Then an old hand touched a young one, as she sought her full attention,

And their eyes connected deeply as she gave her admonition.

‘But there is no room in this small basket for sadness, rage or hate,
The things that do not serve me – I simply cast away.
I choose not to carry anger, regret or bitterness.
Forgiveness is a powerful tool that you should not forget.
So your walk is just beginning – your lessons still are new,
But remember as you journey, YOU choose what to take with you.
You too, may be a healer, learn the Medicine of the Earth,
Your destiny is written in the flow from birth to birth.
The Magic is there within you, both in knowledge and mystery,
Seek Great Spirit’s guidance, and you will have eyes to see.
So they might think your basket’s empty. But just smile and know with pride
A Woman’s Medicine’s unseen – It’s what you keep inside.

Sweet!!!

SWEET!

As if it wasn’t sweet enough, the Old Post Office Tearooms just added a new dimension of interest ….
hmm……here’s a few lines to point you in the right direction…

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down……

You’ll catch more flies with honey than you will with vinegar…..

A wise woman puts a grain of sugar into everything she says to a man, and takes a grain of salt with everything he says to her.  (Helen Rowland)

Age does not diminish the extreme disappointment of having a scoop of ice cream fall from the cone.  ~Jim Fiebig

Strength is the capacity to break a chocolate bar into four pieces with your bare hands – and then eat just one of the pieces.  ~Judith Viorst

Frankly, I don’t trust any diet that doesn’t allow sugar .  (Bethenny Frankel)

“You can tell a lot about a fellow’s character by his way of eating jellybeans. ”
― Ronald Reagan

“Really I don’t like human nature unless all candied over with art”
― Virginia Woolf, The Diary, Vol. 4: 1931-1935     (thanks Virginia, that one seems pretty apt for where the Tearooms is situated)

“Whoever thought a tiny candy bar should be called fun size was a moron.”
― Glenn Beck

(credits to the website  quotegarden.com  and goodreads.com for some of the above quotes, credit to my parents and my own memory for many of the others!)

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You’ve no doubt heard these lines before, but they sprang to  mind with the latest evolution of the Old Post Office Tearooms.    Brenda has taken a little of her own history and brought it to light in the tearooms, by opening an old fashioned “lolly shop”.

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The idea came about with this beautiful old photograph showing four generations of her family (Brenda is the baby in this image).   Her great-grandmother had a sweet shop back in Ireland, and the original scales from this shop are a treasured possession in Brenda’s own home.   Lovingly polished, they have now taken up pride of place in the new “lolly shop” (or should I say “Lolly Shoppe”) and are put to use weighing out the candy just as they were all those years ago.

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So who remembers all these old fashioned “lollies”?  ….the “Big Charlie” bubble gum sticks…?   Musk sticks?  (or “penny sticks”)…..  or Choo Choo bars?

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Just the sight of these old favourites takes me back to my primary school years….. I can remember the days we bought our lunches in town instead of having sandwiches from home.   Who remembers the old bakery next door to Busselton Primary?   Both are long buried beneath a big shopping centre these days.    We would take 20 cents for our lunch (yes, twenty cents!)    (today, some folk need $20 for their lunch in town!).   And with that 20c we could go to the bakery near the school and buy a meat pie, an apple pie, a soft drink AND still have a cent or two left over to buy lollies.   And for that meagre cent or two, you could get a whole bag full of  lollies like Brenda now sells!   A “five cent mixed bag” was a huge score, more sweets than one kid could eat in an afternoon, even if you did sneak them into your school desk and eat them when the teacher was not looking.

Oh I can still remember my best friend’s mum lecturing us…. “A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips” … ha!   well I am not about to confess to you whether she was right or not but I am sure you have done the research for yourself.

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The more I take,

The more I leave behind…

What am I?

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For a special young possum named “Goo”

Her trip to WA was nearly through

Chardonnay, shiraz, cheddar and blue

And great company – yes it’s true!!!

Happy holidays

Beautiful spot

We enjoyed your pearcake and coffee

Lovely food, setting and set up!

Thanx (Table #2)

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Under water observatory

 

Under the waves that reflect the red and yellow light,

Only blue remains

Though hints of colours flash

On fish that dart by,

Curious eyes peeking into

The land above

Things that grow

On things that grow

On wood

Gaping mouths that filter

Tiny particles of life,

Currents warm and cold

Bring together friend and foe.

(Sarah Davies 24 april 2013)

To my sweet Valentine

If after all I have no hope

Send me back 8’ of rope!

Harry

(now there’s a sense of humour!)

Life is a vivid bouquet of colours

If you choose to use it

Life is like anything…

If you don’t use it

You lose it!

Sweet is the word of the week

As we eat and give Brenda cheek

We’ve tried it all

And can’t decide which is the favourite

So we will have to come back

And try gain to see which

Ones are sweet next week!

(Anne and Carol)

 

“Sweet”

As we sit here by the sea,

We think of something sweet.

A food to share amongst us three,

A lovely sugary treat.

 

As we ponder this our quest,

Our tummies start to rumble.

What would satisfy us bewst

Something that would crumble?

 

A little taste of something sweet

Like scones with jam and cream

This is the food we’ll buy and eat

Till bursting at the seams.

 

A drink we’ll have, to pass the time

Right here on “coffee street”

To while away our day sublime,

And dream of something sweet.

(Jasmin Watkins)

 

Yep!  Delight is a coffee at Brenda’s unique establishment – with or without company (that happens).

The welcome is always warm and the food out of this world!

Wot a treat!

JE  26/4/13

Windows … Do You Look? Or Do You See?

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“Church of My Father”

Colours bleed in

Painting the walls and souls

Of those who wait

In hope of redemption.

Humility sits with Patience

Steadfast, beneath windows

Lovingly created

By hands of man

For the glory of God.

Colour weeps softly on weary shoulders

And burdened souls,

Compressing the pain

Of implied imperfection

Between stone walls and

Ambiguous lines of ancient texts.

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Life pulsing reds

And the dignity of purple proudly

Adorn in folds the human suffering,

Anguish of the ages

Etched into glass faces,

That await absolution with certainty, in the

Vibrant shades of faith.

The greens flow with time,

And the blues sigh and whisper,

Muffled stories that

Speak still,

In reverent moments.

Hands wrung in hope,

Clasp for strength, pray for understanding,

Tithe the price, await the law…

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Gold towers in judgment

And looks down amidst the brown hues

Of a rod for a back

Or a place to kneel.

Cream and orange chastise

with tenderness

Where pink caresses with love and

The lure of forgiveness.

Reverence disguises

The fear of a Father’s wrath.

Pomp and circumstance

Rites and rituals,

The longing for understanding…

The burden of humanity…

The artist paints the journey of the soul

The martyr and the victim,

Bound by walls of stone

And hardwood frames,

Steepled ever upwards in search of the divine,

Like manmade hands in eternal prayer,

Fingers pointing away from the truth.

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“Church of My Mother”

Colours drift in

From all sides

And paint the space and souls of those

Who seek their own redemption.

Gaia dances with Time,

Artists enduring, through windows

Lovingly created

By the hands of God

For the glory of mankind.

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Colours rain on weary shoulders

And unchain the spirit,

Releasing pain

Illuminating perfection

In pools of vain prayers dissolving.

Beyond aspiration,

Understanding awaits,

With no walls,

No constraints, no expectations.

No words.

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The art of the seasons,

Unframed by doctrine,

Life giving reds, glory skies,

And purple sunsets flowing,

In folds of nature’s creation,

Where time forgives and heals

What man struggles to understand.

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Glass faces shatter and melt

Rigid no more,

Revealing moments of truth.

Green flows with life,

And the blues whisper and sigh,

On the breeze,

In stories that ripple across time,

The threads that weave a trembling horizon

Into a circle of belonging.

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Reverent moments offering

A glimpse through windows

Past and future.

Hands release and fall

Free at last to give and receive.

Gold lines the heart instead

Without judgment,

As earthly hues with feet commune

And invite knees and shoulders to rest.

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Cream and orange delight with tenderness

Where pink and crimson caress the senses,

With love and the realization that

Forgiveness

Is the gift you give yourself.

Reverence emerges from within

A Mother’s love – moments and magic

Music and vision – the gift of understanding.

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The artist paints the journey of the soul

Unbound by walls or lines,

Sans martyrs or victims,

Only seasons, ebb and flow…

A cathedral transparent and alive

Like an open heart,

Pulsing,

Breathing

Inviting, the tithe to creation

Our very breath

The communion, inhaled,

Flowing ever inwards to reconnect

With the divine.

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The poems above were inspired by some quiet time spent in a little local church, one of the oldest and most beautiful in the region, where the light flooded in through magnificent stained glass windows, telling stories of old and inspiring thoughts anew…… I could not help but compare the two churches in my life – one the traditional structured set of ideals that we are given from birth by those around us, and the other, an unlimited sacred space we discover in nature as we continue seeking along life’s journey….. two spaces where the colours and the truths emerge to annoint and liberate us ….  it’s a personal choice which church resonates within us…..

Perhaps it is all about the windows and how we “see” through them….

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“Seeing”

They were the eyes of the church

Like windows to the soul

Staring flat and dark and lifeless

No light within at all.

There was no invitation

No promise, warmth or grace

Just blank, unblinking windows

On a stony ancient face.

But still I felt a longing

To search and know some more

I breathed in deeply, then gave a sigh

Opened the old church door.

I stepped into a different world

A whole new point of view

For the cascades of incoming light

Painted stories in every hue.

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The windows that seem so empty

From the outside looking in

Held the most vibrant blaze of passion

That I had ever seen

This revelation of colour

When seen behind these eyes

Revealed a beauty that outsiders

Could never realize.

A rainbow wash illumines

This sacred alchemy

The light through stained glass windows

Awakens colours here in me.

I breathed in all the silence

Yet my heart could hear a choir

My spirit danced while my artist heart

Knew inspiration’s fire.

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I felt those ancient secrets

Whispered in the solemn air

Shifting from witness to belonging

Between the there and here.

Looking out through other’s windows

Might seem difficult to do

But I felt the gifts as I embraced

Another’s inner unique view.

I stand outside the old stone church

And gaze back at those eyes

Somehow a light glimmers within

A secret knowing, calm and wise,

And though the windows appear the same

Something has changed for me

The more I look through other’s eyes

The more that I can see.

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