Why I dwell in the green

IMG_0035.jpgIMG_3299

 You ask me why I dwell in the green mountains / I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care / as the peach blossom flows downstream and is gone into the unknown.

Conversation in the mountain by Li Bai (AD 701-762): Poem spotted in the National Gallery of Victoria.

Photos of my version of dwelling in the Australian green, taken while lingering in the grass in Fitzroy Gardens, Melbourne looking up and looking along; at Narara Ecovillage, Central Coast NSW and an Impressionist favourite from the Art Gallery of NSW.

img_2959-3Version 2

The road is made by walking

 

dart2

Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more;

wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking.

By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees

the path that never will be trod again. Wanderer, there is no road

Only wakes upon the sea.

By Antonio Machado and with a warm nod to Paulo Freire.

The Writer as Migrant

I love Ha Jin’s Waiting. Poignant realism tugging at every heart string of my challenged existence. I am still musing on travel, writing and reflection and turn to The Writer as Migrant by Ha Jin.

In The Writer as Migrant, he wonders about the Ithaka’s we search for .. real and metaphysical .. “some Ithakas turn out to be different from what we expected, but we have wonderful journeys that enrich and enlighten us .. As we travel along, we should imagine how to rearrange the landscapes of our envisioned homelands.”

Picture 906Picture 531DSCN0858Picture 630

Today’s pictures are brought to you by my companions and me on a track north of Broome, at a view in Petra, on a path on the SW English coastline, and in an alley in Damascus.

It’s cold … need hat!

IMG_0007

Where to go for a hat? The first place I think of is a market stall run by local women, high on a beautiful winding road between Cusco and Ollantaytambo, Peru. This road to Macchu Picchu has wonderful memories.

Do I need a room with a view? This place, this view reminds my heart that I need no walls, no boundaries, no windows, no borders.

My hat? Maybe, you’d like to go for me? We all need the wider view.

Campfire flackering

dsc00685dsc00680dsc00688dsc00681dsc00679dsc00678

A shout out (or gentle nod) to Nikki Gemmell, journalist, author, creator of wise, engaging musings. Recently she wrote about lingering lingo, words and phrases about nature, and our relationship within it, ‘a catalogue of lost or singular words for the Australian bush.’

I loved flackering: staring, wordless, at a campfire at night and fires in grates do just as nicely on my own, with friends, making friends. The easy silences, occasional smile, the jaunty poke with a stick at falling ashes and tumbling logs.

I have happily flackered in many places across the globe. These photos were taken in Dorset many moons ago, and I can still experience the warmth on my face, the joy in my heart and the cool at my back.

NB. Flackering is not to be confused with ‘fracking’, a far more dangerous pursuit, or rather assault upon our nature.