After the fire

(the first line was written by Kenneth Slessor)

 

A bird sang in the jaws of night

Its crooning voice was low and sweet.

I listened, crouching, small and still,

And peered through new encircling leaves.

 

The smoky, sombre haze was still

In cleared arena dim and dark,

It hung in softly shadowed poise,

And hid the constant, friendly moon.

 

I looked upon the smoke-hazed orb.

 Sequestered in my hide of leaves

Until a whispered wind arose

And all around was blessed with light.

 

The bird flew down to circled gleam

A gentle light from high above,

Fell softly on the silvered wings;

Its plumage borrowed from the stars.

Susan Starr ©©©

 

 

 

Everything takes time. The sun doesn’t just instantly appear in the sky every morning. It makes its way slowly to our horizon (we actually make our way to it, but let’s not get bogged down with Science). It heralds its coming by the first faint glow of colour, low in the sky. Then it peeps out shyly; just the arc of its great orb showing, like a hiding child peeping up from behind a lounge chair.

It rises relentlessly, gradually, until the full measure of its brilliance shines on all of us from it’s lofty perch in space.

Our lives take time to establish too. It takes time for us to become who we really are and its always a fraught journey. Through the shallows of callow youth we splash our mistakes and gather our joys. We wade to deeper waters. Wide, unknown; exciting and treacherous where sometimes unavoidable currents take us to places we didn’t plan.

If we’re lucky, we find a shore bedecked with happy, fruitful relationships and successful ambitions. It all takes time, and if we are always honest with ourselves, we find out who we really are and why we plotted our course in the way we did.

The flotsam of our mistakes wash up regularly on the shores. Some are driftwood and float off again. Some are great logs of regret and disappointment which never leave.

And overall, is God, whether we acknowledge Him or not. For some of us, He is the anchor in sunny climes. He is the rock in our storm-washed shore. He is the One who will bring our journey to an end. One day the sun will set on all our lives.

In each of us who are called; who have chosen; a growing part of us longs for that Day when the trump shall sound and we will step on to that Other Shore where we will be restored to all our potential; all our failings healed; all our hurts becalmed. We live in this fallen world ever battling our flawed human nature with the other nature; the divine one. We tire of carrying the battle within. Today Lord, we surrender to your Holy Spirit, who can change us, slowly, like the rising sun, from glory to glory, until we are fit for heaven.

 `I’ll have a half-strength flat white..’ I leaned over towards the glass fronted counter and pointed. `… and a piece of that luscious-looking carrot cake please’. Thus my day at the Coolamon Art Show had begun. The coffee, I have to say, from The Little Rustic Pantry, in the aforementioned town, was the best I’ve tasted for ages; barring the cup my son-in-law makes, in his you-beaut machine.

I sat outside on the verandah and literally soaked up the sun. I could actually feel the back of my neck getting quite warm. I didn’t care. It’s been so long since we had a full-blare sunny day, that I was determined to extract some Vitamin D from its radiance.

Then, I stepped next door to the Art Show. For a tiny community, the standard is pretty good. I gazed at a close-up painting of the face of a cow; of a tiny girl taking a photo of a cockatoo; pastoral scenes of impressive quality, and some with a bit too much of the amateur’s brush. Doesn’t matter. It’s important to have a go and give reign to your creative talent.

Then, I wandered down the main street, noseying about. I entered a very posh-looking ladies’ clothing shop where exquisite garments hung on stylish racks suspended from the ceiling. Their price-tags made my eyes water! It was a tasteful, softly-lighted space decorated in lovely pastel colours. Stylish. Elegant. Expensive. There was no music, I noticed and loved the quiet. It was staffed by an attractive young woman; tall and slim and wearing a lovely dress of soft pinks and greens. She also wore the pinkest lipstick I’d seen since the 60’s (must be back in fashion), and lashes which could have batted for England, they were so long. I admired her courage, however, opening such a shop in a small rural town. I think she might need to stock a few more items for older ladies. Like me.

The other side of the street sported an Op Shop. The two ladies were just closing, but beckoned me in. It was a tiny shop and I was sifting through the DVD’s when a man squeezed past me to the mens’ clothing out the back. He brought out a jacket, the better to see it in the light from the window. He told the two ladies he was looking for 70’s retro stuff. They were very helpful and showed him a jacket of a peculiar stripy pattern (see photo). `It’s very well made,’ said the chattier of the two. I had already noticed that the stripes on the shoulders didn’t match up, but didn’t say anything. During this tete-a-tete over clothing, it transpired he knew his labels. `Ahh, I think I’ll stick to this one.’ he said, indicating the one in his hands. `It’s a `brand name’ and been made in England.’ He had driven his beautifully restored vintage Dodge, up from South West Victoria somewhere. I’m thinking Daylesford or somewhere like that. The ladies and I trouped out to look at his magnificent set of wheels. Several acres of gleaming vehicle stood at the kerb. It was a huge American convertible with left-hand drive, leather seats and a boot which could fit a big red Kangaroo in it, and leave room for his mate, the Emu (Americans call it an Eee-moo). Hilarious!

On down the street I wandered. I bought a plant from a little-old-lady craft shop… you know, the ones which sell crocheted toilet roll holders with dolls at the top, and washers with crocheted edges. Lots of balls of wool, but all acrylic. I don’t buy acrylic, so I guess that makes me a wool snob. But ladies of my Mum’s generation love acrylic wool.

Then, I motored out to Ganmain. It’s a little town 15 minutes west and it has a two coffee shops, a lovely home-wares shop, and a quaint little bookshop. Really. I could have spent an hour in it. It was housed in the old Post Office and it had a big and varied range of books (including Christian ones!) and little spots where you could sit and read. I bought a dear little Japanese Imari vase. That sounds knowledgeable, but… I don’t know what that is. I bought it because I do use vases and because it’s pretty. I also bought a book called `Enigma’ by Robert Harris. There’s a movie of the same name. Want me to tell you what Enigma was? No. I’m thinking, I’ll be lucky if you’ve read this far, so I won’t.

I thought I better get home, so headed back through the paddocks of canola. Yellow betwixt paddocks of the bright green of emerging wheat or oats or lucerne. Roadsides bright with flowering wattle. Truly, Australia is a land of green and gold out here.

When I found my way to the wool aisle in Spotlight, (In Australia), two older ladies were huddled over the display of knitting needles on offer.

`That’s a 10 there’ said the younger one; a short, dumply little woman with a round, pleasant face.

`I need a 10 and a 12.’  The older lady’s finger wavered between the 3’s and the 3.25’s.  Or would it be that one, do you think?’  she looked over at her friend, her finger now gravitating to the 3.5. The needles were all lined up neatly behind each other on the display.

I understood their predicament immediately. If you’re older than about 50, you grew up knitting with needles measured in the Imperial gauge.  Then, we went metric and needles were measured in millimetres. Soo… 3.5mm etc. The US have a different sizing again, just to add to the confusion.

The older lady was thin, with a slightly crouched frame and tightly permed hair. `It’s confusing, isn’t it’ I ventured.

`I need a size 10 for the basque and a size 12 for the rest.  I’m knitting a jacket for a new-born babe.’ I could picture the old pattern, probably English, possibly from the 50’s or 60’s or even older, comprising lacy jacket, booties, shawl and bonnet, in a pretty lacy pattern. My mother knitted them for my kids, but never in the impossibly thin wool which was like knitting with cobwebs. I admired the dear old lady’s determination, but then I bet she was knitting when Hitler was invading Poland;  and when our troops marched off to Korea to fight in snow and gave our wool industry a boost (think about it). I bet she was still knitting as she watched the moon landing and through Tricky Dickie’s crimes and cover-ups; through the Berlin wall coming down.  On and on through the decades until now.

`If you buy the wrong ones, I’m sure they’ll exchange.’ I offered helpfully.

`Oh no dear, we’re from Young.’

`Oh,’ says I, smiling, thinking of their journey down here. I bet they take a thermos then possibly treat themselves to lunch in a cosy café, like my friend and I do when we set out on a jolly jaunt to another town.

The two turned back to the task in hand, still prevaricating over which size was right.

`How about I google it?’

The pleasantly plump lady hesitated and I turned away, thinking perhaps they were sick of me interfering. But she looked over at me and said `Are you going to google it?’

I had it in a twinkling; the table showing the equivalent needles in millimetres, converted from the Imperial.

I finally left them to it and wandered about in the next aisle over where I got into a conversation with another lady, about losing loved ones and anxiety and depression…. and God. She introduced the subject, after she told me her brother had died 4 years before.  `I’m not religious,’ she said to me, `but I believe there’s Someone up there.’ These conversations are always negotiated carefully on my part, lest I intrude too far into someone’s private beliefs and cause offence.  I would absolutely hate to brow-beat someone about this subject, so I just let her talk. But I did tell her eventually, that God was my rock.