Changing Seasons: February

Until last weekend there was a hole in my soul, a beachy space that I was eager to fill. I had not been to the beach at all in December or January when the surf, sand and sun were calling me. Once upon a time the beach was a magnet whose pull I could not resist, but now I’m growing older, and have other priorities. That is, I can no longer be bothered demanding that I be taken to the sea.

Now it’s February. All the families and kids have returned to the cities to start the school year, which means the beaches are empty at times, ideal for reflection and winding down. On Saturday morning we drove out of the city, through two country towns, rose up the mountain into the clouds, crawled along blindly through their whiteness, descended towards the coast and got to our cabin in time for lunch.

In the previous week the temperature had been up to 41 degrees and down to 17. On Saturday it rained (lightly) as we strolled alone along the sand. The tide was high, lapping about the strip of rocks that protruded from beneath the water and stretched all the way to Barlings Island, an Aboriginal heritage area. If I were a snorkeller I’d go there because it’s a good place to see fish swimming through a giant underwater kelp forest.

The next morning the clouds had gone, the tide was low, and I said to my husband: “Walk to the island.” And he did.

Almost there, he struck a narrow chest-deep channel. But he was fully clothed and turned back.

What a man! I say “Do this” and he does it.


The Changing Seasons photo challenge is the brainchild of Cardinal Guzman. Hop over and see his amazing shots of Oslo in February.


Weekly photo challenge: Solitude

There’s this song that goes:

Son, in life you’re gonna go far
If you do it right
You’ll love where you are.
Just know, wherever you go
You can always come home.

Son, sometimes it may seem dark
But the absence of the light is a necessary part
Just know, you’re never alone
You can always come back home.

It’s 93 million miles, sung and partly written by Jason Mraz. It’s a song about something so much bigger than us, yet without which we cannot live. Though we are incomprehensibly far from the sun, its light and warmth after travelling all that way are perfect for us and our planet.

My son in Germany sometimes feels likes he’s millions of miles from home, but fortunately he’s not. He likes this song because of the reminder: You’re never alone. Once, when he was still living with us, I had a migrant English student come for a lesson and my son played 93 million miles on his guitar for her. We all sang it together, and by the end we felt like every one of the world’s problems was solvable!

93 million miles from the sun
People get ready, get ready,
‘Cause here it comes, it’s a light
A beautiful light
Over the horizon into our eyes.

Here’s my son when he was still in Australia, enjoying solitude between a rock and a hard place on ‘Ben’s Walk’, a riverside forest track in Nowra, New South Wales. It’s an image of solitude, a moment when he was on his own, contemplating the river view. Although, as the song says, ‘You’re never alone’: his dad was round the other side of the rock and I was outside the gap with a camera!

Ben's Walk, Nowra, NSW
Rock gap on ‘Ben’s Walk’, Nowra, NSW

Actually, he’s not alone in Germany either, for he has his wife, Mrs Amazing. But this post is for him in those hours when she’s away doing amazingly astronomical things and he’s physically alone. It’s a bit of electronic interaction that might, just might, momentarily curb the negative side of his solitude.

Thanks WordPress for the challenge.