taking the dogs out

the best part of the day was taking the dogs out.

Gemma is small and brown. She is part Corgi (her legs) and part Joy. She loves to run around and around in great circles over the grassy hill and back again.

Dooley is my Mum’s fool of a poodle. He is tall and thin and black and he chases after Gemma, barking. She runs around him, leaping at his throat when he gets too close.

After the chasey game, they lie in the cool grass and I sit with them as the stars start to come out. There is slobber on my leg and my foot, but Gemma is lying on her back in the grass with her tongue lolling out, smiling up at me.

And all is well in my world.

yin yoga


in seal pose on my kitchen floor I’m waiting for my own birth and I’m gently reflecting on how all my little worries were resolved and I’m in all moments in-between

our sun unborn and the final marvelous aria of the opera of the planets and the tins to be unpacked from yesterday’s shopping – all  happenings all time in this moment



I experienced this during one of Melissa West’s new yin yoga series (free on YouTube): Melissa WestIntermediate Yin Yoga for sleep

richmond birdwing butterfly

23 years ago, we are at the edge of the Kuranda Rainforest track. Outside, there is only glare and heat and damp. The morning sun bites hard and hot. The bitumen is sticky with heat. The air is so wet that I breathe heavy from the short walk from home. And the blazing song of a million million cicadas buzz, throb, and pulse around us.

Kirra and me, we carefully ease past a cascading curtain of wait-a-while, and we enter the forest.

We enter the cool and dark and quiet.

We enter the stillness of the forest.

I pause to breathe a few breaths and to be present, here.

Kirra wriggles off my hip and runs ahead.

In the heart of this forest there’s a spot where the Kuranda creek murmurs around a large flat rock, 15 steps across: 25 steps for Kirra. There are flay dry patches of rock and little pools, rivulets, and a deep crevasse where an eel may – or may not – live.

Kirra is playing in the creek, perched on the rock, writing on the water with her stick and counting taddies.

I lie on the cool cool stone to look up at the forest giants.

The giant trees, columns and canopy shade us completely: just a few slender rays of sunlight are made visible where they illuminate a leaf, a twig, or tiny floating particles of dust.

And rising between the columns, a cloud of Richmond birdwing butterflies, green stained glass, catch and reflect that sunlight as they circle and eddy slowly in a gentle updraft.

Photo of a male richmond birdwing butterfly resting on a stick, wings open.
Bob Decker. 2012. Richmond Birdwing Butterfly. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0


the old ones sing

the old ones
sing of
long ago

now –
as the
ash and
embers of our
thread their
way to
sky and

now –
I am
earthbound and of the

the old ones

now –

In 2008 I attended a Women’s conference. The keynote and many activities were provided by the elders and supporters of the Kapululangu Aboriginal Women’s Law and Culture Centre. One evening some of us had paint up and danced a traditional dance. Then the elders sang around the campfire and we watched the ash and embers rise into the sky to join the stars.

gratitude #1/10

This morning, on this first day of gratitude, I am grateful for my breath.
In and out and up she rises.
And falls.
For a moment loving and nourishing me alone
and then leaving,
just for a moment
before returning replenished.
My breath, connecting me to all things.
My breath connects me to the earth and the rich warm smell of the earth, to rain and to the possibility of rain, to my neighbour’s bonfire, and to the other neighbours’ dogs. To little birds, to people everywhere, to the mighty old trees crowding the sky down by the river.
In and out, here now and gone again and here, now and now and now,
my breath, your breath,
here now.