we all share the same Mother.

 

two weeks have passed since ‘The Challenge.’

I posted  Z    hopped in the car – waved goodbye to the forest and went to the city where I bathed in family and loving friendships.

On a very cool morning sitting beside Lake Burley Griffin I wrote in my journal….

 

“though worlds away from the forest the Sun Sky Moon remain the same.

thru the cells in my body and the air that I breathe

we are interconnected all of the time.

we all share the same Sun.

we all share the same Mother.

that is the single most extraordinary thing about all this living business isn’t it? –

Mother Earth is Mother to us all –

She who provides everything.

 

houses flats tall buildings march purposefully along wide streets.

concrete paths parks and gardens flourish.

cars zoom to work home shops market.

busy    busy    busy.

outdoor cafes sit endless numbers of suits and trendy misses-

mums and bubs in strollers take a break.

lycraed bike riders suck up the chill morning and breath out white plumes moving silently along the ever-expanding network of pathways.

beside the lake I watch campers brush their teeth – a young couple on the move – another family lingering over breakfast in the weak diluted sunshine.

workmen drop by for a fag in between jobs and fishermen brace the shore in director’s chairs.

the lake is a mirrored placidity – Black Mountain pressing down on the edges.

 

inlaid like mother of pearl in my old music box is the autumn colours –

ruby red magenta crimson russet burgundy maroon scarlet rust auburn coral tangerine apricot burnt orange amber lemon gold mustard saffron chartreuse straw citrine yellow olive  and into the mauves and violets and greens and browns

what a palette !!!!

it is glorious and sings to the heart of seasons change.

a wind has flown in from the snowy mountains that have received their first fall of snow and leaves are tossed around.

some with a final flutter a final wave goodbye drift erratically to the ground.

they huddle and gossip in gardens and gutters parks and doorsteps.

we crunch over them in our boots inhaling their languid dampness their mossy moist secrets.

brooms compete with leaf blowers that break the sound barrier

and for the sake of human decency should be banned.

acorns and horse chestnuts mass on street corners.

feijoas are ripe and plucked over the neighbour’s fence – pomegranates and persimmons dangling in laneways are harvested and brought home.

this is Autumn and this is the nations capital.

 

just across the way is parliament house and the zillion other offices of bureaucracy that attempt to determine our lives.

our PM rarely sits in his office – he is too busy striding around our fair land in a high Vis vest mucking in with the workers that he is committed to fleecing.

this is served up daily on the screen with accompanying fatuous statements.

give them a break I hear you say – they are doing their best – we cannot agree with all that our rulers do on our behalf.

Wrong.

I am in no mood for conciliation and far too old in the tooth to accept shoddy deals of self serving snools.

this is a planet we all share -there is water and air and life that we all inhabit.

I have no time for fat cats lining their pockets at the expense of our forests beaches  our wallabies frogs and turtles.

far rather they expire into the compost and allow the real work to go on.

 

I watched television one night while in the city.

one night out of a week.

the news failed to tell any story in touch with the reality of planet earth.

it served a dish long past its use by date.

the current affairs was cheap grab journalism about brawling billionaires which  neglected  to mention how little taxes these people pay – how much they are subsidised and the extensive funds they back hand into the pockets of the pollies.

it is as if we are reduced to twitter journalism – why tell a story when a cryptic sound bite will do.

the foreign correspondent story was set in Afghanistan – a hard unrelenting uncompromising brown dust scape only softened by winter snows.

into this minefield we learn that 50% of the pop. is under the age of 18.

we visited orphan boys and  young men living in detention centres.

they draw pictures of how to make bombs – their sand play is molding rifles – their talk is of loathing for the Americans and praise for the Taliban mixed up with infidel’s dogs and revenge.

there was little hope or kindness.

there was no one to hug the 8-year boy that saw his mother father brother sister killed by a drone (US) who was then groomed to become a suicide bomber.

he escaped only to become a pawn of the government before being locked up with all the other young sad male stories.

Madness lay in their eyes.

 

it is not a matter of which side you are on.

the evil is war it self – in its ideals of glory and freedom and the warped perversion that a gun a bomb a strategy will make the world a better safer place.

 

there is a new story in town and we must learn to tell it.

it involves earth and heart arising out of spirit.

it covers kindness and art and involves all beings.

it is about food grown and cooked with love

about the way we extend our selves to help each other.

the care we take – the laughter we share.

the effervescent joy of breath and cold mornings

of coffee and friendship.

 

I know that I have been dealt a better hand than the boy in Afghanistan.

I know I have been dealt a gracious loving circle of family friends and community.

I know clear blue skies and wild diverse forests.

I know cheese makers wine growers olive growers

people growing food and culture.

I get to to see creativity exploring it Self.      ”

 

 

home – I say hello to the wallabies and  check out the neglected vege garden that thrives despite my lack of attention.

it is a dense mat of flowering chickweed

oh so yum in salads.

sorrel and parsley, purple basil, self-sown cos and oak leaf lettuces, chinese greens – a few straggly tomato plants and a few still bearing zucchini bushes.

the rhubarb is going hunky dory and there are tamarilloes on the tree.

the days are sunshine warm and the nights are cold ice clear.

no frost yet.

 

Mothers Day Night I stepped out onto my verandah under a big moon and heard a snuffling.

got my torch and saw the biggest wombat I ever did see.

hello I call out – hello wombie

and out of the bushes steps baby wombat.

they move off towards the orchard – bub’s nose an inch behind mum.

they both stop and turn to me – to the light and we gaze at each other.

ok I gaze they are blinded but stay with me it was a cosmic moment.

my heart leapt in joy and gratitude.

I chatted a bit more

and then they ambled off back about their business.

they will not be road kill this night

they will not be shot this night.

and for all this that has been dealt me I am truly grateful.

 

 

Thank you  to the Mother.

 

 

.

 

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Author: faeriembassy

the faerie embassy is my home space,a beautiful mudbrick castle in a richly diverse forest. which means I am very passionate about wallabies and pythons and mist spiders and twisted angophoras and the sound of the wind and the feel of the rain . we are an ark ,an island of light, a beacon of common sense in a crazy out of control consumption mad world.we have a composting toilet for goddess sake.

3 thoughts on “we all share the same Mother.”

  1. I love those moments when we are gifted by the presence of wild creatures. Love your descriptions of autumn. The older I get the less I can tolerate even the idea of conciliation, the polite smiling and playing nice to people who are basically sociopaths. They are broken and dangerous.

    Like

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