It’s unbelievably hard to stay the course of my own beliefs, I’m so desperate to keep in line with everyone else’s.
I love when people step out of the zone we’re meant to live in. The brave souls who decide to fly their kite their own way. Fringe dwellers.
(It would have been clever of me if I’d taken a photo of my Queen Anne Lace. Or even a photo of an aphid. I didn’t).
And I’m not talking about those that are forced into the fringes, (which, when you think about it, is a hell of a lot of people. The parameters of ‘acceptable’ are pretty bloody narrow). That kind of life is the topic for another day. Today is about those who get to choose to wave in the wind, ignoring those suffocating parameters. All hail to thee. Thank you for showing me that it’s possible to live another way. There are many inspiring rebels, but for starters…
The Artist as Family – a beautiful family based in Daylesford that are all about community and a new way forward. “People make a difference. Four years ago council was livid we established the Terra Nullius Breakfast outside the Daylesford Town Hall, without a permit. If we had asked permission, or applied for a permit, we would have likely been refused. This year council reached out to be involved. We are not Libertarians, but we’re not compliant puppets either.”
ani difranco Her music has flowed through my life for years, especially when the road was tough.
Nick Cave just keeps on surprising me. The Red Hand Files
Hidden Brain has a fab episode about people who step outside the rules.
Go forth, my brave souls! Blow raspberries to the critics, especially your internal ones. Stand tall.
I want to celebrate the things in my life that are valuable, that sustain me and that are so easily overlooked. Potatoes fresh from the ground. Laughter. My dog snoring beside me.
I made compost with awful shit today.
Manure taken from a feed lot where cattle stand in – we can only presume – despair.
The evil smell of their shit a symbol of rage, fear and hopelessness in a world willing to continually close its knowing eyes.
My cousins, years ago, used to tell me stories of warming their young feet in cow pats on their farm. They wouldn’t do that with this stuff, this weird, heartbroken shit, these clay clumps of our disconnected life.
I mix it with old vegetable leaves, sweet grass, hay and straw.
I pile it high, gasping at the stench.
Soon the worms will come and turn and twist through it all. The creatures of the earth will make their way among the good and bad, binding it all together.
Next year I will plant corn and tomatoes. The capsicums will be crisp and juicy, the eggplants will be rich with depths of flavour.
And I will be moved by the wonder of transformation and the ordinary miracles that come through care, through love, through time and the steady hum of the earth.
Slow. Having little motion.