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Mourning trees

At risk of being outed as a tragic old hippy, I’m mourning a tree. Again.

This tree-mourning, I’ve only just realised it even happens. This time, this tree. It wasn’t even a significant tree, or a pretty tree, or even my tree. Just a big, old tree.

My neighbours, I like them, and I think they thought I’d be happy to see it go. Its absence would impress real estate-y types. Our outlook has been, they would say, enhanced. The aspect to the north-east has opened substantially with the tree’s departure. Property values probably up up up. Whoopee.

It was an old pecan, too tall for us to reach any nuts (but the cockatoos could). Some of it was dead, but not all. And when the branches were all stacked on the truck on Saturday, when they were cut and stacked to be taken away, you could see all its little spring buds ready to burst. As it transpires, never to open, but ready anyway. As a deciduous tree, it did us all a favour, keeping a few houses in a row cooler in summer and letting winter sun through.

It’s not the first tree felling to make me sad, but I’ve only just named these individual sadnesses as actual mourning. The old fig up the coast at my folks’ house, the one that cooled and protected a garden and homed birds and bugs and green tree snakes… whole bloody communities of critters. Cut down by its “owner”, and we’re not quite sure why. It’s hot up there now, in that yard.

The common mango in my street.

The big old school fig, 120+ years old, lost in a storm; the same storm took some of the figs down near the river, including the one with the secret cave that my boys and their friends liked to hide in.

The leopard tree at the house I grew up in, planted by one of the first families in the area, maybe the first exotic in Sherwood. I used to look out my bedroom window and watch kingfishers nest in its fork, as a teenager.

The 60-year-old magnolia we lost in a drought.

The 80-year-old banksia, the ancient melealuca, and every other single tree on the block of a house in Yaroomba, cleared for an architect’s ugly folly. (The neighbour’s son used to play on the footpath; it was the only land spare.)

When these big trees go, it’s rare that anyone checks them for nests first, and this makes me sad, too.

Bloody hippy.

 

Winter sun

It’s one of those winter mornings when the slanting sunlight is a treasure. Our morning schedule is thrown sideways by the end of school holidays colliding with the 5am World Cup final, so I drop my partner at work over the Victoria Bridge.

We are fortunate to spend a few traffic light changes waiting on the bridge in cross-river traffic. Fortunate because, looking up, we catch miraculous smoke above the Treasury Building. The sun’s rays, angled from the north, grab hold of steam rising from the old building’s vents. The steam twists, throwing rainbow clouds of sunbeams. Refracted? Reflected? It’s like someone’s barbecuing unicorns in the casino below. The spectrum bends in two columns, rainbow clouds.

 

Back home fifteen minutes later, I take last night’s scraps down to the chickens. Turn on the hose. Our lawn is brown. It seems we’re heading back into drought; I’ll just hit the essentials. (Also, the necessity of a full day of work is muscling in on my desire to stand here and dreamily water the garden for an hour.)

The essentials: some seedlings planted on the weekend, the chickens’ water bowl, a transplanted lime, the bird baths. There mustn’t be much water around, because I’ve already been visited this morning by some of the regulars. Common city birds. Timid wattle birds, a young magpie, crows all drink from my garden’s water bowls.

A noisy miner lands on the ancient rose beside the largest bird bath. It’s cool (for our subtropics), but he dives in, rolling around and splashing. He’s bathing with what I imagine as anthropomorphized delight.  Sunlight streams from the north behind him. As the bird moves, drops of water splay, catching beams. Throwing the sun back out over the roses’ bare limbs. Again he dives, rolls, splashes, and returns to his branch. Then back to the water, flapping and shaking, broadcasting gold spray.

It’s too gorgeous.

Crafty

It’s happening. I may be turning into a semi-hipster.

 

It's a craft thing.

It’s a craft thing.

It’s the craft thing, see.

It started with an innocent workshop at the local library.

Crochet your own granny square. I always wanted to do that. There was one space left. And so, braced as I was against an earth-shattering hangover one Saturday, I learned how to crochet (a granny square).

A year later, I have over 60 and I’m still crocheting.

Granny squares

Next, I caught myself planting succulent cuttings in shells.

Shells with succulents

For a while, there was also some baking happening in my life. But we won’t talk about that.

I got craftier.

I bound banksia pods in aged old bamboo steamers, then attached orchids.

Banksia garden art

I hung shell strands from trees. Sketched stuff. Contemplated pom pom pictures.

Then, I found myself googling “How to make a rag rug”.

I may need help.

 

Sunshine

Sincerely I promise this will not morph into a mummyblog. Eeek.

But there’s a time to recognise unexpected gifts that my kids give me, and nod at the pile of things I am thankful for. Number one, or close to it, is the current moment. The Now. Man, I’ve practiced yoga since 1996, and didn’t come anywhere near understanding how to live wholly in a moment until I met my sons.

With them, I cheat the march of time. Young kids give you a ‘now’. Hang out, and seconds hover somewhere near the top of the playground swings, if you let them.

The other morning was one of those moments that you stop, live in, and try to absorb so you can keep every aspect alive.

A six-year-old home with the sniffles and his dad, deliberately late for work, playing backgammon.

From the north, late-autumn morning sun drenching the back deck.

Sunlight halo around a little head; sunlight shining behind a big boofy bloke head, and moustache, and stubble. The sun polishes the flakes of white paint peeling from a wicker chair, makes precious the jaded.

Our stingless bees — they’re tropical, and don’t get out of bed for less than 16 degrees Celsius —  just waking up, lethargic, stretching black legs in the sun.

The deck, cuddled by tropical birch trees: quarter-leaved, occasional flaps of bronze and gold dropping from the twigs beside us.

Steam in a teacup.

Ugh boots on a sunny daybed.

Two sets of giggles, and time stopped.

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