Archives: morning

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.

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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