My Winter Solstice Day

As the mercury rose from minus .5 to minus .2, I figured it was warm enough to head out the door, seeing as other locations around Tassie have had to suffer overnight temperatures as low as minus 7 degrees this past week. The yard was white and crunchy underfoot, so too the valley below as I wandered along the frosty track to take in the winter solstice sunrise, not a spectacular one compared to some we've had of late, but greeting the rising sun always gives me hope. No matter what happened yesterday, last week or however far in the past, a new day was dawning, a clean slate, full of possibilities if I dare to recognise them and take the risk to follow them through.

Headed up the bush to replenish my dwindling kindling supply, became absorbed with the delicacy of ice crystals on fallen timber, a discarded drink can from who knows when, and the rusting remains of what was probably once a forty four gallon drum.

As I gathered sticks, I became aware of snickerings and whisperings and as I looked closer discovered an odd family of woodland creatures. They were happy enough to jump in the car with me, and seemed content to find a new home in the backyard. I was a little concerned about the conversation going on between these two, one definitely didn’t look impressed, but in the main they remained aloof, avoided eye contact and weren’t exactly interacting much.

Neither was the massive petrified serpent or prehistoric creature of some description that had seen better days but had met his demise through whatever means in our very own patch of bush.

Decision to curl up on the couch in front of the fire to watch a chick flick while having my afternoon coffee with ginger nuts was dashed by my sound system spitting the dummy. Rats, means no more music either until my ancient setup receives an overhaul. Did some cutting and pasting instead of my favourite Darwin trip photos into my journal, reminding me how important and special those forty eight hours were, then curled up with a book to compensate, Barbara Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer, appropriate I guess at this time of year. After reading her novel The Poisonwood Bible a while ago, I’m finding this one just as exquisitely written.

The temperature climbed to a creditable 6.3 around 2.30pm, a tad warmer than yesterday, then by sunset two hours later was back to 5.2. Mind you my thermometer is on the southern side of the house, so despite the sunny day that followed the frosty start, the reminder that winter is now upon us was made clear in no uncertain terms. As I write the mercury is back on its way down and currently at 3.9, but the lounge room is a moderate 18.5 and I’m already looking forward to a hearty bowl of soup and warm crusty roll for dinner before putting my feet up for the evening.

Winter arrived with a definite bite this year, and I now understand why the grey nomads head north for the winter. Without that option at this point I’m happy to embrace the particular delights of this season, the chill that makes you know you’re alive, and the warmth of home that cocoons you at the end of the working day.

Michael Leunig’s prayer from his book When I Talk to You says it succinctly for me.

We give thanks for the blessing of winter:

Season to cherish the heart.

To make warmth and quiet for the heart.

To make soups and broths for the heart.

To cook for the heart and read for the heart.

To curl up softly and nestle with the heart.

To sleep deeply and gently at one with the heart.

To dream with the heart.

To spend time with the heart.

A long, long time of peace with the heart.

We give thanks for the blessing of winter:

Season to cherish the heart.

Amen

Marooned on the Island

For the first time since my grandchildren were born, I missed a birthday party, a cardinal sin in my books. Zandar turned 6 two days ago and I was stuck at home after enduring two plane trips from hell after doing my back in for the umpteenth time three days ago. The three plane trips the day before to get me to Darwin were probably the catalyst but all was going fine until I was loaned a car to check out what Darwin had to offer. Sat myself down and ‘sproing,’ it wasn’t one of the springs in the car seat that went but the whole structure of my lower back which has given me curry over the last 30 years that decided to give up the ghost just at that moment. The phrase “Not happy Jan” came to mind along with several other choice words that will remain nameless.

Managed to visit two locations during the day, maneuvering myself in and out of the car with the precision of a shuttle docking on the international space station, spending as much time as possible in an upright position walking, and walking, and walking some more, for to sit or lie down was a decision fraught with danger. The NT Art Gallery & Museum provided me with several hours of walking and taking in some exquisite art, my favourites being both traditional and modern indigenous art, an exhibition of Year 12 art from late 2014, and a French exhibit featuring Edgar Degas, Henri de Toulouse-Letrec, plus Honore Daumier who I have to admit I’d never come across before. Daumier’s lithographs from the mid 1850’s were a sheer delight, earning him recognition as the forthright caricaturist and commentator of his time on French and Parisian society, and felt every bit as relevant as current day political cartoonists.

 

Leaving Tassie in 2 degrees and landing up north in 32 was a bit of a shock but bearable nonetheless, very thankful it wasn’t the wet season otherwise I would’ve been reduced to a whimpering puddle on the floor before even making it out of the airport terminal. Managing to locate a doctor late in the afternoon who thankfully prescribed the medication I needed to make the homeward journey of two flights somewhat bearable, my friend helped me into my shoes and socks seeing as I had no hope of reaching the nether parts of my anatomy, slid me into the car and deposited me back at Darwin airport a mere day and a half after arriving for the 1.30am flight back home. That’s right…AM…you’d be surprised how many people are jetting around the country at all times of the day and night.

 

Airplane seats are notoriously known for their lack of comfort, so while standing up at the back of the plane for half the journey from Darwin to Melbourne, I contemplated contacting Jetstar for a half price refund, a scenario I could see would obviously not work, but it did give me something to take my mind off the pain as I stood between the toilets doing stretching exercises while most people nodded off into stages of fitful slumber as we headed south.

Contemplating driving the car home once finally arriving back in Launceston, I had to take the bit between my teeth and exercise mind over matter, but what it brought home to me is that I have grave doubts of ever indulging in one of my fantasies of flying to Europe to spend my year in Tuscany, or Provence, or walking those ancient cobbled streets in a myriad of ancient cities.

Looks like I’m marooned on my little island, with my dreams of travel having to be satisfied by watching the Tour de France, the Giro d’Italia, and the delights of documentaries of foreign countries being traversed by others who are fortunate enough not to have dodgy backs. What it does do though, is give me renewed determination to visit the sights and meet the characters this delightful island State has to offer. If people from the other side of the world find Tassie fascinating enough to travel halfway way round the world to visit, then there must be plenty on my own doorstep to keep me occupied for years to come.

Shame to take Tuscany off the agenda, but there you go.

(Apologies if publishing portions of artworks contravenes any copyright laws)

All will be Revealed

Woke at 6.30 this morning, felt compelled to get up, fought the compulsion for another ten minutes then peeped out from behind the blind. Thick fog. Ah, I knew there was a good reason for getting out of bed so early. I love wandering and taking photos in the morning fog.

A blanket of silence prevails, apart from the mournful crow perched on the power pylon going kah kah kaaaaah. I think all the other birds are having a Sunday morning sleep in. The early morning walkers head into the void, and I hear the muted strains of the Picnic at Hanging Rock soundtrack accompanying their footsteps.

The beasts in the field, not sheep or cows but the ever present towering power pylons loom as usual, and I wonder whether they look more or less menacing as they emerge and stake their blighted claim on the landscape.

 

While much is obscured I notice things I would normally just pass by, the barbed wire stark against the foggy background, the little fungi no bigger than a bottle cap, cobwebs jewelled with dew. The grand vista will always grab our attention, but when taken away we have to refocus on what is closer at hand, and it’s the small details I love to observe.

I’ve written about fog before, but it never ceases to fascinate me, and for me is one of the great metaphors of life. Its all enveloping nature, how we can experience it as a chilling cold and dampness that works its way through layers of clothes and skin and settles right in your bones. Brings you to a standstill.  Makes you question which is the right direction, or if you think you know makes you doubt your ability to get there.

We hide some things, reveal others, keep our skeletons locked away tightly in musty cupboards, wander in circles or simply stand rooted to the spot waiting for the wind to shift or the sun to appear to release us from the grip of this intangible nothingness that prevents us from moving forward.

Fog can be an annoyance, a disruption which holds us up, but I’ve come to really enjoy it, not simply for the photographic opportunities, but for its quality to help me reflect, to slow down and wait. To see it as a prelude to something at times quite amazing.

Life can be a muddle. Things in the distance might be obscured, but funnily enough as you approach them they become clearer. Sometimes you just have to take the risk and make a move to find your way out of the fog.

Nudge Nudge, Wink Wink, Say No More

Have just returned from a marathon dental appointment, which I made yesterday after my one remaining fully functional chewing lower back molar broke off in my mouth while eating a lovely soft juicy piece of pear. And not just a bit of tooth, but the entire thing. I hadn’t even bitten into the pear, I’d cut it up into nice bite size pieces so I could nibble away while clacking away on the computer at work.

The tooth’s days were obviously numbered to have succumbed during such a harmless eating event, and I knew the resulting treatment wasn’t going to be pleasant. I doubted the tooth would be able to be saved, but to extract a tooth that has broken off at the gum line with nothing to grab on to to pull it out, this is one trip to the dentist I wasn’t looking forward to.

Add to this I was led away from the waiting room like a lamb to the slaughter by a final year student, albeit with supervisors hovering in the room watching over several students go through their paces with us willing victims who had signed away our lives and our consent to not being treated by experts. I didn’t want to discourage him by saying I wasn’t going to let him anywhere near what I thought might be beyond his expertise, so it was encouraging to hear he had already managed a difficult extraction this morning.

Consulting with his supervisor the verdict I was expecting was confirmed. It had to come out. And how were they going to do that I asked. Shouldn’t be a problem they said, all they had to do was cut the tooth in half and take each half out separately, taking care not to break it into pieces in the process seeing as root canal treatment had been done years ago making it more brittle and sometimes more difficult to remove. Yeah…simple…no worries.

And so the fun began. Drill drill, grind grind, I had this picture in my head of those guys who cut nice straight lines on paths with those noisy concrete cutting machines. Deeper and deeper he went, and after much pushing and pulling and deciding he still hadn’t actually cut the thing in half, back we went to the cutting drill. While I’m practicing my relaxation techniques and coping quite ok, the pushing and pulling and jiggling was attempted again, but was this tooth gonna move? Definitely not.

Supervising dentist brought in to consult, nice guy, lovely Irish accent, happy for him to have a go while student watches the maestro at work. Admittedly it wasn’t completely straightforward for him either, though he did get the first half out after putting enough pressure on my lower jaw to almost break my neck if he hadn’t been holding everything together in his capable hands. What a wonderful thing mentoring is.

So here we were, one half out, one to go. Should be simple right? Wrong. Head honcho gets to work again, push and pull and drill, take a breather, push and pull and manoeuvre it around, open my mouth up so wide I think I’m going to turn my head inside out with all these fingers and pliers and wrenches and suckers in there, more pushing and pulling and finally, finally out it comes. One hour later and one gaping hole remaining for the student to stitch up, and the marathon was over.

Well, almost. One interesting side effect, and its something that’s happened on two previous occasions when having teeth extracted, was that I couldn’t close my left eye. Student tells another supervisor who mentions something about an aberrant nerve. What a nerve! At least he didn’t say it was abhorrent. Anyway, after closing my eye manually every couple of minutes, and trying not to wink at the checkout lady in the supermarket on my way home, it finally came good as the numbness wore off, and I can now talk without drooling.

And to top it all off, I just answered the phone and who should it be but the dental student, checking in with a courtesy call to make sure I’d got home ok and that my eye was working again. Now that’s service, first time I’ve ever had a follow up call from a dentist. He graduates in a few months, almost makes me want to go along to cheer him on.

Mushy food tonight, what fun.