Is Spring Sprung?

When does Spring begin in eastern Australia?  Specifically, I am thinking about Spring in the Blue Mountains of NSW - the jonquils began flowering before Autumn had ended, and the daffodils were in full flight half way through Winter, so they aren't valid indicators.  Some say that the first day of Spring here is the beginning of September, while others plump for the equinox.  My cherry trees seemed to think the equinox about right....

while Jack Frost wanted to argue the point.....

but, in this part of Australia, there is one sure sign that Winter has left the building, and that's when the firewood you were going to pick up for the BBQ decides it doesn't want to be collected.....

Although this garden is a kilometre above sea level, and there had been a nice frost at daybreak, by morning tea-time this little girl was out soaking up the sunshine.  At not quite a meter long, she is a nice specimen of a Highland Copperhead - venomous, but not aggressive unless badly treated.  In fact, they are considered one of the shy snakes of Australia, and I had only a few seconds to get photos before she was sliding towards a clump of shrubbery that offered shelter from Kookaburras and annoying paparazzi....

My wife says she didn't see any snake when she was picking up sticks in that same part of the garden only ten minutes earlier - was it not there, or did it succeed in pretending it wasn't?  In any event, I think we can declare Spring is sprung.

Good Neighbours

The growl of a neighbour's lawn-mower has been obvious for an hour or so, and now, as the wind shifts, that wonderful scent of fresh-mown grass and clover is drifting in through one window and down the length of the house, searching for an exit. 

Other, more distant, mowers have woken from their dry-winter slumbers over recent days, and even mine has poked its nose out of the garden shed for a little exercise, smashing the drifts of brown plane-tree leaves to a less water-repellent compost.  It's back in the shed now, waiting for another warm spell, and the rosellas and other birds are, I think, grateful.  All those areas yet unmowed are thick with tiny flowers and little seeds and subtle herbs that feed the birds, or feed the things upon which some of the birds feed.

As well as crimson rosellas, king parrots, and various honey-eaters, the finches, silver-eyes, wrens, magpies, currawongs, and kookaburras all look happy exploring the explosion of life that is our little vale in spring time.  Even ducks and herons call in from time to time.

We humans and our machines are well behind the times, though - long before any of us thought of mowing, those first good showers of rain swept in a few weeks ago and woke the green shoots across the brick-bare earth beyond the front hedge, where the passing shoes and boots of locals and tourists had seemed to have worn the grass to dust. Within weeks there were patches of grass long enough to dampen the shoes, and even the socks, of travellers.

The moisture softened what had seemed impenetrable, and suddenly there were thousands of little holes and twisted coils of worm-castings as the hidden workers woke, wriggled, and flourished - opening, aerating, and fertilizing the soil.  The earth-worms do for free what would otherwise cost us many hours and dollars.  Few humans would willingly work as long and as hard as the worms do, and fewer would achieve the improvements these labourers contribute to the world they draw sustenance from.

Hidden buds swelled and opened, and just as suddenly, the bees were humming and buzzing in throngs as they searched through the hedges, herbs and vegetable gardens.  Stems and twigs that seemed beaten down or even killed by the frost and bitter winds of winter found new suppleness - verdant or rosey blushes spread, and flowers that seemed unlikely a few weeks ago now draw crowds of avian and apian admirers as they trade nectar for procreative assistance.

Beautiful in its own right, this dance of insect and plant creates a wealth of food - honey, fruit, berries, and vegetables - and it happens whether we are watching or not.  We can help, if we are careful, by fostering the growth of the plants that will provide food and shelter for all those natural workers - many of whom we rarely notice or know -and avoiding acts that will harm them.

How can we know if we are doing good or ill?  That is a task that will occupy lifetimes of taking the five senses out into the garden and the bush - our lifetimes, and those that came before us, written or recorded for our benefit.  There are those who will teach us, if we are willing to live out there with them, touching, smelling, tasting, seeing, and hearing.

Warming up

The transition from winter to spring seems to have been more precise and punctual than is usual for the Blue Mountains.  Winter was clear, dry, and often frosty. 

The wind arrived to blow the frost away, and our lake became a bonsai version of a storm-tossed ocean.

The snow, when it fell, settled mostly on the ranges beyond the Cox's River, and only a few flakes drifted across our gardens when the wind swung a little.  Finally, the rain arrived.

The blossoms that had been latent were suddenly bright in bush and garden.....

The bees were suddenly spoiled for choice....

Everywhere I walk there is life.  The warming soil and air has brought out that amazing community of worms and insects and lizards and birds that aerates our soils, pollinates our fruit and vegetables, and eats the aphids, bugs, and caterpillars that try to set up colonies on our favourite plants. 

The magpies are dashing frantically to and from the heights of the tallest pine tree in the neighbourhood, ferrying a constant supply of worms, grubs, and donated mince to the demanding maws of this year's clutch of chicks.

The kookaburras are back, too - greeting the first rays of sunshine with their cheerful chorus, and patrolling the edges of our gardens, picking off the early skinks, while hoping for larger fare in the form of an snake or two.

Every season, in a place like this, has its pleasures and its wonders, but there is a lot to be said for the first few weeks of spring.

Am I Seeing it Right?

Does art imitate life, or does life imitate art?  An oft asked question, but the apparent assumption is surely wrong - that one might be true does not mean the other must be false.  Why did I even ask the question?

Yep - I'm once again lost in the pages of an interesting book, one that began simply enough but soon began to reveal layers of interwoven complexity that had me questioning my own perceptions - not only of the words I was reading, but of memory, understanding, and my experiences with life and other people.

My encounter with The Menagerie of False Truths developed from a simple beginning that soon took on twists and turns that echo its contents.  Awake before dawn, and not wanting to disturb a sleeping household, I often put earplugs in and turn on my tiny pocket radio.  At 5 am on most Saturdays of the year, the ABC Sydney station, as well as the one on the Central Coast, broadcast a show called The Big Fish.

The name, and even the promotional material, imply a show that might largely be a one hour fishing report from various correspondents around New South Wales, when in fact it is a radio stage, across which parade a remarkable array of characters, who tell fascinating, informative, and (mostly) amusing stories about people, fish, nature, weather, and, sometimes, politics.

This particular morning I tuned in a bit late, and found myself listening to the host, Scott Levi, questioning a chap about some exotic location in which he had been fishing for trout.  The speaker, eventually identified as Greg French, was articulate and erudite, and it became apparent that he had written a number of books.  A casual angler myself, I had not previously encountered his work - audio or published - and made a mental note to check the catalogue of my local library to see if we held anything by him.

We did, though we are not yet in possession of his latest book - Water Colour - but held other items by him, including "Menagerie"  It was a title strange enough to pique my curiosity, and I ordered it sent up from the branch at which it had been reposing.

It swirls, as the pages turn, from disturbing, to amusing, to tragic, and back to disturbing, all the while informing as well as questioning.  French touches on - digs into - aspects of perception and mis-perception, understanding and mis-understanding, ability and its lack, art, life, arrogance, humility, love, anger, grief, and suffering.

Each new understanding, though, came with an awareness that there must have been much more that I had missed - a re-reading will be in order, along with diversions to investigate concepts and information previously unmet.

At the heart of this novel are the perceptions, understandings, and behaviour that arise from the differences of mind and thought that society refers to as Autism, or The Spectrum, and the effects that those differences send to ripple out through families and communities that surround such  people.  It can be too easy to forget that each of us has a particular way of perceiving and understanding the world around us, and that of course affects our responses to the world and the life in it, including other people - what we see and hear may well be quite different to what they see and hear and feel.

Like fingerprints, each world view has its own unique whorls and curls and patterns - fingerprints, like world views, are meant to help us get a grip on the world around us; each pattern, though unique, still does its job, though some do not fit their surroundings as well as others.

The world we live in is complex, from micro to macro, beyond our ability to fully understand - but understanding it is a journey worth taking. Surprises are guaranteed, but so is delight.