A Plover Calls At Night

It was about 3am, still very cold and dark out, when I first awoke.  All was peaceful and then, suddenly, I heard it again, ringing through the stillness...a plover calling "danger, danger" to its mate.  I live near the ocean and am blessed to have a stand of gum trees nearby amongst a small group of hillocks that stand almost next to a bay-bound  canal.  Beneath these gums is a nest, resting in the grass, of plover eggs.   I think there are only two eggs at present, though they may lay more....

There are obvious hazards in making a ground nest...many predators lurk, not to mention careless walkers on a nearby path, stray dogs and cats,cyclists and curious onlookers; all in all not the most secure place to prepare for raising a family, one would think.  And yet these tenacious birds, about the size of a pigeon but with longer legs, persevere in guarding and tending their shellbound embryos day and night.

They use all manner of tactics to deter sundry attackers, including charges, loud calls and the menacing spreading of their pretty wings.  I can only surmise that they meet with some success, as there are many of them living in my bayside area.  I am in awe of their courage as they face down any perceived threat, often in the form of something much larger than themselves.  They are quite active at night, and whatever it was that set them calling this morning I can only wonder.

Perhaps it was a prowling moggie or another night bird; whatever it was, my heart went out to these plucky avians as they faced down the danger.  I imagined two rapidly beating hearts and powerful surges of adrenaline as they strutted with bravado against the foe.  I hope their eggs are still safe and that their next nocturne is a more peaceful one.  After all, with chicks as cute as the one below, surely the battles are worth it?

Now the plovers are quiet; there is only the sounds of the breaking dawn as the sky begins to slowly light.  My Tig is beside me as I write, her days of night prowling long since past as she prefers the comfort of a warm bed.  Her blue eyes are questioning mine: will we go back now and sleep some more?   I wonder: will we?  What do you think?  :)

Willow

Beyond the gate

willow waits

to move within

a morning breeze

to rest beneath

a summer sun

to sleep amidst

 the winter's cold

 Waiting without,

bound to earth

yet dancing in the sky

knowing without knowing

that  you are God

Boundless as the mysteries

of the skies

finite as the soil

which holds you close

Share with me

the wonder

of your life

Whisper your dreams

and I will listen...

~Penelope~

A Glimpse Into The World Of Juliana Hilton

Juliana Hilton is another of my favourite Australian artists I thought I'd share with you..  She is in her seventies, a mother of five and a prolific painter and printmaker and currently lives in country Victoria.  Her work has a luminosity and sense of purpose that appeals to me greatly.

The first encounter I had with  her work was at an exhibition in the 1980's I attended with Sylvia Isaac, a dear and much beloved artist friend of many years.  Sylvia thought I would enjoy Juliana and she was right!  I love Juliana's use of everyday subject matter and the way she makes me a part of her work with her endearing use of colour  and contrast.

I find that  her use of bright against dark, flower juxtaposed with vegetable, bowl beside chair, table by piano   all speak to my sensibilities.  I could happily cohabit with her subject matter and feel fulfilled and content.

Juliana has introduced me to the sweet yellow of the prickly pear fruit in a bowl of endearing blue that I would love to call my own...I am tempted to take out my paints and canvas....but no, I cannot match her way of bringing everyday life to my table.  I wish only to bring it to my walls......when I win Lotto perhaps....

Why I Forward Jokes...

This explains why I forward jokes.

A man and his dog were walking along a road. The man was enjoying the scenery, when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead. 

He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years. He wondered where the road was leading them. 

After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road. It looked like fine marble... At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight.

When he was standing before it he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold. He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side. 
When he was close enough, he called out, 'Excuse me, where are we?'

'This is Heaven, sir,' the man answered.. 'Wow! Would you happen to have some water?' the man asked.

Of course, sir. Come right in, and I'll have some ice water brought right up. 'The man gestured, and the gate began to open.

'Can my friend,' gesturing toward his dog, 'come in, too?' the traveler asked.

'I'm sorry, sir, but we don't accept pets.'

The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going with his dog.

After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed. There was no fence.

As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book.

'Excuse me!' he called to the man. 'Do you have any water?' 

'Yeah, sure, there's a pump over there, come on in.'

'How about my friend here?' the traveler gestured to the dog.

'There should be a bowl by the pump.'

They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it.

The traveler filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, then he gave some to the dog.
When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was standing by the tree..

'What do you call this place?' the traveler asked.
'This is Heaven,' he answered. 

'Well, that's confusing,' the traveler said. 'The man down the road said that was Heaven, too.'
'Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates? Nope. That's hell.'
'Doesn't it make you mad for them to use your name like that?'
'No, we're just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave their best friends behind.'

Soooo...

Sometimes, we wonder why friends keep forwarding jokes to us without writing a word.

Maybe this will explain.

When you are very busy, but still want to keep in touch, guess what you do? You forward jokes. 

When you have nothing to say, but still want to keep contact, you forward jokes.
When you have something to say, but don't know what, and don't know how, you forward jokes.
Also to let you know that you are still remembered, you are still important, you are still loved, you are still cared for, guess what you get?   A forwarded joke.

So, next time if you get a joke, don't think that you've been sent just another forwarded joke, but that you've been thought of today and your friend on the other end of your computer wanted to send you a smile.

You are all welcome @ my water bowl anytime. 

One Of Those Days

Have you ever had one of those days where everything possible seems to go wrong?  Well, I have and it's sadly today.  The first thing I did wrong was to get out of bed.   I immediately proceeded to fall over the dog who was waiting with considerable impatience to be let out into the garden.  Usually he's the last one to get out from under the feather and down quilt he has claimed as his own, with utter contempt for the cat's and my overnight warmth.  That's when I realised I was awake.  From there it's been steadily all down hill.  Sigh.  The mug of tea I made to start my day ended up all over the cat and the kitchen floor as Miss Tig did her usual death defying dance around my sleepy ankles and I tripped.  The bright spot was when my favourite mug escaped with its life and remained intact.  One bright spot.  Yep, that's been it, so far.

I turned on the computer and it told me it did not want to work today and was having a lie in.  Far too cold, it said with disdain, and raining outdoors.  To prove its point, I got the usual error messages flashing into my tired brain: no, No, NO, and WHAT PART OF NO DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND???!!!  Computers have no manners. After much cajoling and restarting, plus considerable swearing and vehemently blue language, it changed its fickle silicone mind and booted up....eventually.  Now it keeps wanting to restart itself and I haven't even gotten to my email yet.  Apologies if replies are lateish, but this gizmo has a mind of its own and it may decide to pull its own plug and leave me stranded somewhere in cyber space.  

At this stage I have still  not had that first essential mug of tea which clears the cobwebs and assists in my basic functioning au matin and leads to many more delicious bowls full of lovely bergamot and citrus tea.  Sigh.  I guess another bright spot would be not having sustained any fractures to my osteoporotic bones with all the plummeting to the floor I've done  thus far today.  OK. Two bright spots.  An intact mug and no bones in plaster.  Know what?  I think I'll quit whilst I'm ahead and just go back to bed where it's warm and there's nothing to make me rush headlong at the floor trying desperately not to break china or me.  Just a nice soft pillow and a corner of the quilt if I'm lucky..... 

Art Of My Heart

I love art, both classical and modern, and a browse through my computer files has revealed some of my favourites.  I thought I'd share them with you.  Each has been chosen for its style, subject matter and warmth of feeling.  These are all Australian artists that I have selected today:  Margaret Olley, Cressida Campbell and Criss Canning. 

Each artist, to my mind's eye shares the commonality of simplicity of subject matter, a soft sweetness of colour and natural lighting.  If you have time one day, a Googling of each one will yield a rich reward of other examples of their work plus a little about their lives.  I hope you enjoy this selection.

Each picture has the ability to induce in me the need for cosiness and nesting  :)   Or perhaps the longing to find a soft empty armchair, a good book, a pot of Lady Grey tea and a quiet afternoon absorbed in Agatha Christie or Maeve Binchy.

I am struck by the apparent ease with which each woman has captured an instant in time; aware that each painting of course would have taken hours if not days,  weeks or months to produce.

Perhaps I should wander in the garden and look for a stray nasturtium or two?  Or maybe fossick in the cupboard for an interesting pottery bowl in which to place a worthy bloom.  I hope you find something to lift a moment of your day in my humble post......

William

Who is William?  He was my darling Dad, better known to all his clients as Bill or Billy or Pa to his family.  He was six feet tall, slender as a willow and towered over my tiny mum, much to our delight.  They were a handsome couple back in the day and cut quite a rug on the dance floor.  

Bill was a professional golfer; not the kind who plays in tournaments, but the kind who taught others the fine art of frustration that only knocking a small ball around acreage can bring!  He was very good at it; a patient teacher who encouraged, coaxed and cajoled accuracy and finesse from the inept and the talented.  He felt every stroke they hit, winced at the clunkers that besiege all golfers and smiled broadly when a sweet one left the wood.  I loved, as a youngster, to hang out with him on the course, even if it was just to wheel his buggy or watch his skill around the bunkers and greens.  At the short game, he was a master.

I remember waiting up as a small child, for Dad to come home and continue teaching me how to whistle.  It took a while, but I mastered the rubbery lips and hisses that were my beginning, with Dad's loving help.  I was about five years old...I can still whistle to this day, though it's mostly to recall Rusty at the dog park.  I get my love of animals and nature from my father, especially dogs and horses.  He was a country lad, who left school at fourteen to pursue his golfing dream, and was still teaching ten days before he passed away from a heart attack at the age of seventy-six......

He lived long enough to see my son Zachary born and growing, and was a loving grandfather to Lynne, Ann, Christopher, Julian, Kate and Antony.  There were also great grandchildren: Paul, Timothy, Chris, Cameron, Jeannie.  He did not live to see Matthew and Rachael, as they came along later, nor did he meet his great great granddaughter Isabelle, who is only four months old.  He loved all of us equally and was proud of our achievements and forgiving of our shortcomings.  I was very close to my Dad; we had a special bond after my mum passed away...That awful loss nearly destroyed him, but he fought on valiantly without her for another eighteen years, before the battle against loneliness and sorrow made his strong heart finally fail.  There was never anyone else for Dad; never another Jeanne.

I think of them both every day and hope they are happy with their youngest child.  If they loved me only half as much as they loved each other, I will die a happy and fulfilled woman.