Archive for May 2011

Home Archive for May 2011

In the middle of summer, all we wish for is winter. However when winter comes, there are days when you never want to leave the warm covers of your bed and you recall the distant warm summer days. Sticking your nose over the top of the blankets, the cold nips at it, driving you back into the depths of the covers.

Clear winter mornings come with air so crisp it feels as though you could take a bite out of it. Sparkling white frost coats every blade of grass and flower stem, crunching underfoot when you walk outside. The sunlight glints on every droplet of frozen water, creating the grey paddock of pre-dawn to a field of glittering diamonds.

When the cold wind blows, the bare limbs of the liquid amber rattle eerily. The last leaves that have fallen get whisked away leaving the lawn empty and devoid of colour. It’s always exciting to find troughs of water or puddles that have a slick thin coating of ice on them. Running fingers over the frozen, fragile surface, the warmth of my skin eventually breaks through the thin layer, plunging my hand into the icy water, deadening fingers. We wonder at the thought of snow; and hope to go somewhere this time where we will catch a fleeting glimpse of the miracle. It never snows where we live, and we marvel at thoughts of it being referred to in feet.

Chores outside take preparation. Bundling up inside thick flannelette shirts, jumpers, and coats, plus warm hats (beanies) we brave the cold to get some fresh air. When we were milking a cow, we would pour boiling water from the hot water system on our rubber boots to warm our cold feet. Usually though, our feet would brave the frosts; running outside to do chores as quickly as possible without any boots or shoes. This would often see us tearing into the house at a run to thrust numbed, frozen feet under hot water in the bathtub, wailing and groaning over the tingly pain of feeling returning. We never learn.

Winter is fires season, where there is no danger of bushfires. We spend hours heaping up sticks, logs, and rubbish to make a bonfire. When it is finally lit, the flames reach to the sky; a tower of flickering fire against a backdrop of black sparkling sky. The fire is so large that it warms the ground in a large radius, giving us the chance to run around barefooted without worrying about the cold. Hats are pulled over eyes, and hands are drawn inside sleeves against the heat as we strive to poke sticks into the blaze. Once alight, we run through the darkness with lighted sticks as banners, showering sparks and lights everywhere like homemade sparklers. Sword fights with blazing sticks break out, causing laughter when one’s “sword” finally breaks in half leaving the defender defenceless.

On weekends, winter becomes a reader’s best friend, for one can sit in front of the fire in the living room with a hot cup of something to read. There has been many a time I relish curling up on the lounge in a warm room with something hot and sweet to dive into the world of literature. Winter also brings out half finished projects once began long ago. Out come the knitting needles and wool, trying desperately to finish a scarf before the winter’s end, which is always a mystery. We never wear scarves.

Though we welcome the cool change, it isn’t long before we look towards the spring; where warmer weather will come again.

The word “autumn” brings a smile to my face. It really is my favourite season. (Although I could be biased, since I was born in it!) The sun becomes something pleasant again, and the skies are clear and crisp. The shadows lengthen of an afternoon, throwing our distorted silhouettes across the ground in wacky patterns. The still sunny days are filled with the sound of birds singing, and although the warmth of the air and the ground breathe a sense of laziness, there is a cold nip in the air at night time warning us that winter is on the way.

The liquid amber tree in our front yard begins to turn; gold, red, and orange leaves fill the front yard where the little ones rake them into piles to jump on. Morning sun streams through the windows warming cold fingers and toes as we sit at our desks for school. The long evenings that were full of dusky light are cut short, and it is suddenly dark out after dinner. Playing must be done inside, unless one wants to wander outside and gaze at the glittering expanse of starry night sky. For the first few months of the season, the nights are still warm enough to be out late and watch the moonrise; the cool night air is filled with the sound of crickets and the sweet smell of cut grass and gum leaves.

March days can sometimes have gorgeous overcast days, the grey cloudy skies making the breeze cool and refreshing. It is the perfect weather for horseriding and outdoor games of football, tennis, and other running games.

Hanging washing outside of a day becomes a joy; the sun warms you as you peg clothes on the line. Yet coming out later to take down the dry laundry, a breeze springs up, and it holds a bite that makes you turn up your collar to block it. Sparkling frosts greet you in the morning, and bed becomes a safe haven from the cold floor that assaults your feet. Warm clothes are brought out, along with warm hats, although however cold the ground may be, no one ever wears shoes or boots outside. Fog rolls in as the mornings warm up; the sun turning the grey mist into glowing white clouds as it rises.

Everyone gets excited when it grows cold enough to light the fire. There is the new job of fetching bundles of sticks to place in the box by the fireplace to start it with, and wood to split. Chopping wood is a challenge, and a lot of fun. The air is permeated with the gorgeous smell of woodsmoke from the neighbourhood fires, and the smell of burning grass as people light their bonfires and burn off paddocks.

Overall, there is a sense of bliss and joy that the summer heat is finally over. Everyone welcomes the weather in which we can work and play at ease.

There are some things that can’t be written with a poem. Or a story. Some things are so real and tangible that they beg to be described as something true and alive.

Has there ever been a time in your life where you have been able to view the passing of time from one place? There has for me. My desk is up against a large window, and for the past thirteen years of my life I have surveyed the seasons changing through its glass. Whenever I look through that window, it seems as though it is a whole new season every time, so fast the time goes by. As I observe the seasons, memories from each one come flooding back with an abundance of smells, sights, sounds, and feelings. So many they are, and so hard they have begged me to put into words, I decided I should sit down and write them.

Summer time brings recollections of hot December and January days, when the sounds of cicadas fill the air as though warning us of the impending thick, muggy heat that is to come. The house becomes a refuge of cool artificial air from the searing temperatures outside. The ground burns bare feet, grass dies, and every step raises a puff of dust. Working under the sun is a torture; sweat rolling down your face, hair sticking to the back of your neck under wide brimmed hats. Northerly and westerly winds are dreaded by all, blowing like a blast from a hot oven, turning every green thing to deadened brown. Thirst is a common companion, and water restrictions come into play. The swimming pool is a cool comfort; poised on the edge of it, you relish the moment you launch yourself and break through the surface with an explosive splash, entering a world of cool, blue bliss.

Yet some days, just before dusk, a fresh, cool breeze blows from the south. Someone will run into the house from outside hailing with cries of, “there’s a southerly blowing!” where everyone will leap from their languishing places to kill the AC, and throw open all the windows to catch a blessed breath of that sweet air. Everyone then pours out of the house where they have been couped up for so long to run, jump and play in the hours before dark.

Other times, afternoons grow heavier and heavier, the mugginess making the air hard to breathe, as though some giant has thrown a thick blanket over the earth. By lunch, everyone is looking eagerly to the west, hoping that the large white cumulous clouds will amount to something this time. Late afternoon, the sky to the west builds, growing darker, the shades of navy reveal tints of green, and lightening flickers ominously. The birds stop singing, the cicadas cease their chant; everything becoming still and silent, the sense of waiting fills the very air.

Till with a crash of thunder, the skies open, and rain pours like a torrent from heaven, hitting the dusty earth and turning the paddocks to mud. Every dip and hollow fills with rainwater, driveways become rivers, and mud runs like an avalanche. The sweet smell of rain hitting the dirt fills the house as once again the house is opened to receive the fresh new air.

This was a lot longer than I anticipated! I think the next seasons will have to wait for another post.

In the middle of the bustling mall, I slumped into a chair at the café and let my heavy bags of groceries hit the floor. I was flustered, and for good reason. The mechanic had not fixed my car yet, so I had to walk everywhere carrying my groceries. The assistant at the computer store did not have the part that would fix my computer and couldn’t order one in, so I now have to use the Library’s. The checkout girl was surly and slow, and dropped a handful of change on the ground instead of into my hand and left me to pick it up. It had been a horrible morning full of uncaring, self-serving people.

I ran my hand through my hair in agitation, waiting for the waitress to arrive at the table. Pulling a newspaper from the closest grocery bag, I began rifling through my handbag for my reading glasses. Eventually my hand laid hold of them, and I polished them briefly with the edge of my shirt before putting them on. My eyesight blurred hideously, creating a fog I could not see through. I frowned, and pulled them from my face, inspecting them. That was odd. The glass was clear. I brushed a nonexistent speck from them and tried again. I could barely see a thing past the cloudy glass.

“Why don’t you try mine?”

I almost jumped out of my skin at the nearness of the voice. I clawed the useless glasses from my eyes and quickly turned to view the speaker. An elderly lady had joined me at my table, and was looking at me across the pepper and salt. She was dressed in an elegant white dress, with matching jacket. A string of delicate pearls wound around her neck attractively. Her white-grey hair was swept up into a stylish bun, and her blue eyes sparkled with a life that denied her aging appearance. She was holding out a wrinkled hand to me, and it was then I noticed the gold wireframe spectacles she was offering.

“Uh...” I began, somewhat unsettled, “mine are prescription glasses, those won’t help.”

“Ah, but they might.” She responded brightly. “Sometimes a new set of eyes can put a whole different view on things, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Depends on whether you can see through them or not,” I muttered to myself, wondering what was wrong with mine as I shoved them back into my purse.

“Then you admit it wouldn’t hurt to try them.” The old lady said it like a statement, not a question.

I can’t imagine what persuaded me to take the delicate glasses from the mysterious old woman. I knew they wouldn’t work. They looked practically antique, as though they should have been in a museum, not passed to a flustered woman who wanted to read the newspaper over a cup of coffee. So I can’t tell you why, but I reached out and took the glasses from her hand.

Looking out over the bustling shopping centre, I gently placed the spectacles on my nose and dragged the wire frames up past my face, looping the ends around my ears. A knowing smile crept across the old woman’s face, but I didn’t see it. I had raised my eyes and as I took my first look out through the ancient glass, what I saw took my breath away.

The mall hadn’t changed, but its occupants had, and drastically at that. It was though some invisible hand had thrown the clock out of whack on everyone’s life, causing their ages to change bizarrely. Everyone in the store had suddenly vanished; the lively shopping court abruptly filling with a variety of new faces that belonged to the exact same owners as before.

I turned my shocked gaze to where I knew two teenage girls were squealing over a new dress on sale moments before. They were now no more than five years old, looking afraid and fragile standing by the oversized rack of clothing. I could see their thoughts; I could see everything about them; their worries and fears hitting me like a hot blast from an oven. They were sisters, their parents were constantly fighting, and they were confused and afraid, drowning their fear and worry in shopping for new things. Suddenly the two giggly teenagers gushing over the new items didn’t seem so ridiculous and frivolous.

A fragile old man suddenly caught my attention. With a start that nearly threw me out of my chair, I saw he was the mechanic. What had happened to him? He looked at least 130 years old, his shaking legs barely keeping him upright despite the help of his cane. His life filled my mind: He was battling with a huge mortgage that was threatening to take his home; he worked night and day without thought of his health, his family were not well fed, and he was running out of options. Suddenly my heart filled with a heavy sense of guilt as I recalled the hard time I gave him about not fixing my car.

A young teenager passed nearby. She had dark circles under her eyes, and a terrible hunch as she shuffled along. Something about her was familiar and I leaned forward to get a better look. It was the woman from the computer store! Only she was much younger than before. As I watched her, her circumstances became clear to me. She had grown up as an orphan, scared and alone in the world. The world frightened her even though she was a grown woman. This was her first job, and she feared she may be losing it, wondering what she would do for money if she did. Tears came to my eyes as I recalled the irritated way I treated her. I should not have been so harsh.

Someone moved out of the corner of my eye, and I turned to see an old woman sit down at the table next to me. She looked haggard, and old, with dark eyes that revealed a deep sadness. I noted her uniform and her name tag. My eyes widened. It was the clumsy checkout girl! Why did she look so? My eyes took in her memories, they played across my vision like a television. She worked two jobs during the week and another on weekends to provide for her crippled mother and three young brothers. She didn’t have time to grieve over the pain and loss of her father’s death, and other then working herself to the bone she didn’t know what to do. I was shocked. No wonder the girl had been distracted!

It was then I turned back to the lady who had handed me these astonishing glasses. She was no longer there. I slowly reached up and took the simple frames from my face. I looked around. The people in the mall returned to their normal selves. Extraordinary... the simple, gold wire spectacles gave the wearer a whole new view of the lives of others. What a vision!

My eyes moved back to the chair where I last saw the mysterious old lady. Her chair was empty. No- I saw there was something left there. Bending around the table, I reached over and picked up a single sheet of paper that was placed on her chair. In clear, elegant handwriting, the note read:

“Do something with what you have seen, for you will never see it again.”

As I took in the meaning of the note, I felt the glasses in my other hand. I brought them into view- and my hand was clutching thin air. They had disappeared, leaving not a trace. Reeling from this experience, I read the note a second time. As I did, my focus slowly shifted outside the square of paper and I noticed the checkout girl still sitting at the table. Do something with what you have seen... the words ran through my mind as the girl’s eyes met mine. I suddenly knew what I had to do. I smiled and left my table, moving towards her.

I could get my coffee another time, I told myself. Right now, I had some things that were much more important to do.

(More music, sorry!) Music is a huge part of my life, and when one loves music so much it is inevitable that you come across some songs every now and then that mirror your character, your thinking, and your life. So - this post is on theme songs. True to BushMaid fashion, one is never enough, so I am posting a few. These are the songs that best relate to my character. (and are also songs I happen to love!)

Taking my Time - Dente/Ashton/Becker

This song gives me peace and encouragement when I feel the world trying to pull me in the wrong direction, in the form of things relatives tell me, or what the general public think the right thing to do is. It reminds me that there is no need to rush; no need to hurry, the big things in store for my life will happen in God's timing, and there is no way that I can miss it.

Speak to the Sky - Rick Springfield

Who hasn't talked to the sky at one point? In low points in life it's amazing what a starry night sky can do to lift your spirits. It reminds me of a quote from the book "Carry On, Mr Bowditch"... "I shall raise my eyes unto the stars... sometimes looking at the stars can shrink your problems down to size." Knowing God is behind the stars listening to my every cry is one of the most comforting things. The things I like so much about this song is how the tune is so happy in the midst of trouble. (*likes to be cheerful*)Also the lyrics "Speak to the sky and tell you how I feel; and I know, sometimes what I say aint right - but it's alright, 'cause I speak to the sky every night" reads like, "even though you can't always put into the right words how you feel, it doesn't matter because God is behind the sky listening and understanding". So much I can read from one song!

All I Ever Have to Be - Amy Grant

The reason I love this song is because there are times it feels like you do everything wrong. When you are surrounded by Christian faces and you aren't fitting in. As though, there is something about yourself you need to change for you to fit in with other believers. It took me a while to learn that, all I have to be is "me". And every time I hear this song, it reminds me of the fact.

Here Comes the Sun - Sheryl Crow

And this song because it be happy! I love a happy song!

So there you have it. Four songs that best describe me!

This is a short story I wrote upon hearing the song "The Fingerlakes" by Tommy Emmanuel. It inspired me, and it also reminded me of the 'Write a Story from a Single Song' challenge on HolyWorlds. So here it is. (I tried writing it long enough so you could hear the whole song in the time it takes to read the story!)

~*~*~*~

Run to Hope

By BushMaid

~*~*~*~

I held my breath, trying to still my heart that was hammering against my ribs. Leaning against the building swathed in the dark shadows, I watched as the spotlight circles scanned the ground not two meters from where I stood. I breathed a sigh of relief as they moved away. Suddenly the light was full in my face and coming from a different direction across the street. There was a shout, but I didn’t wait: I ran.

Arms pumping and feet pounding, I ran from my pursuers. As I fled, the contrast of my past life to now flitted through my mind. A simple life, my family and I had lived in a hut by the sea where my father and I spent the days fishing for our provisions. The government paid us little mind, until I found that book...

“There! After him!” Another voice shouted from the alleyway to my left. Desperately I sought a place of refuge up ahead, but there was nothing that would offer a hiding spot to a young man on the run. Rounding the corner of a building, a large, dark form suddenly jutted out into my path. I made to swerve it, till I realized it was a burnt out hovercar on its side. It would have to do. Dropping behind it breathlessly, I tried to catch my rasping breath before my hunters found me. Hunted... My wild eyes watched through the burnt windows of the car, waiting for my pursuers. My mind slowed, and thoughts of the past returned.

We pulled the book up in our nets two mornings ago. It was wrapped in plastic to protect it against water damage. Obviously the book must have been lost ages ago, otherwise it would have been wrapped in fyllicon, a thin silvery substance like cloth that protects anything from the elements. After the net was hauled in and stowed in the tanks, I threw the lever turning off the electric current that kept the fish frozen whilst the net was dragged aboard. I then took the time to inspect the book.

The simple plastic crumbled in my hands as I tore it off, revealing a book bound in an interesting brown, wrinkled material that looked curiously like shaven animal skin. I let the book fall open around the middle. Written on pale sheets of foreign material, I read words of old fashioned English. I read. I read the words of a Truth I had never heard before; words of a future, and a hope in the hands of a man named Emmanuel...

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