Rain and Unexpected Kindness

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My new lake

I wrote not so long ago of the sound and smell of rain as it falls at the end of a long day.

Now the rain has not stopped falling. From drought to flood; so quintessentially Australian. (Yet bushfires still burn around the country, and many areas are still in drought.) I’m currently flooded in. A small causeway crosses the road near the house, and the water is too high for my mini. The creek is tidal, and usually it floods for half a day or so; the worst has been for a few days. Should that happen, I’m contemplating building a raft with empty wine bottles.

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Petrichor, Rain, and My Washing

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anneharrison.com.au

I was walking my dog when the rain came. Early evening on a hot day, and suddenly the road is steaming. Although this must happen elsewhere, for me it is as much a part of an Australian summer as is the song of cicadas: the sheer delight of standing in the rain and getting wet as an earthy, musty smell rises from the road.

The word petrichor was termed back in 1964 by two Australian scientists studying the smells of wet weather. As one does. It is a combination of two Greek words: petra – stone – and ichor – the fluid flowing through the veins of the Greek Gods.

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Some Backyard Visitors

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This stunning currawong came for a visit this morning. Lots of birds visit us this time of year, for at the tale-end of winter our wilderness is one of the few gardens filled with things for them to eat (such as cut up apple). The song of a currawong is a beautiful warbling melody, and they always sing a thank you after being fed.

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Struggling to Live an Intellectual Life

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Eternally contemplating Paris

I’m not really sure what an intellectual life truly is. I’ve no intention of sitting in an ivory tower, pondering the movement of the stars while life carries on below. With all that is going in the world at the moment, however, there is many I time I simply want to shut the front gate and banish the influence of all that happens beyond it from my own little world.

Gardening is a start. For many philosophers, manual labour was seen as a way to clear the mind. (I first learnt this reading Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge, through Larry Darrell who rejects a conventional life in search of existential meaning.) For me, literature has introduced me not only to great stories and characters, but also led me into the expansive world of ideas – whether it be philosophy, travel, the art of gardening, literary style, history; it is all there, a smorgasbord so vast I feel I have only taken a few bites.

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Some Baby Steps Towards Living Off The Grid

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Last night I went to a restaurant for a 20-mile meal, with all the fresh produce being sourced within a radius of 20 miles. (I know we use the metric system but I’m guessing a 32.18688 km meal doesn’t have the same ring to it.) I live an hour’s drive north of Sydney, and once you start looking, an incredible amount of wonderful food is grown locally.
Which is now starting to include my backyard. There is still so much to do, but spring has arrived so what we have planted has really taken off. Much in my herb garden self-seeded while we were rebuilding, somehow surviving amidst all the overgrowth to sprout forth once I’d cleared the bed. (Many have sent their offspring far and wide, and I’m always finding Chinese greens or lettuce growing at various places in the yard.)
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