Peaceful moments

Autumnal Awe

~ teganb ~ Leave a comment

The leaves along the creek have turned a bright lemon yellow and the breeze shakes them from the trees like falling snow. I sometimes forget how much I love the fall. Perhaps because I grew up in a largely coniferous forest the thrill of autumn colours was not ingrained in me like my love of the sweetly warm and fragrant summers of the west coast, and the rare and precious snowfalls that sparkled for a few days, sometimes just hours. Sacred seasons of warm green and diamond white, with flowers and a little orange dabbed here and there on the rainy shoulders of the year, subtler to me somehow. Not until Denmark did I experience the thrill of a deciduous forest lighting up in colours so bright against the dark blue of a fall sky, your breath catches. I was not accustomed to such glory. To be shocked by such beauty left me slightly dazed, and does even now when I think of it. But I still never expect fall splendour and so when it comes I am dazzled beyond words and I go around with my mouth open and cliches upon my lips and my camera poised to try to capture a golden, burning, rusty riot of colour upon the arms of the gentlest living beings, until they softly shed their glorious cloaks and stand naked for months as frost covers their refuse thick up in the ground. Oh the beauty of trees! And the sigh of the wind through their branches. But fall is also the creek winding through the soft carpeted forest floor, and the sun still warm where it shines, and the cool shadow, and the song of the birds, and the brilliance of the stars as the nights grow colder. I love it. What words could ever capture such majesty and such mystery as this living breathing earth. As a living breathing part of this planet I am obsessed with it, and sometimes wish we could live forever, together with our loved ones upon this wild and breathtaking earth. We have our season like the leaves, like the trees. We must live, and love, with just as much colour.

Dawn

~ teganb ~ 4 Comments

The walk to work in the mornings is one of the highlights of my day. I set out just as the sun is beginning to make its way above the horizon. I can still see the stars and moon above, though there is a paleness to the sky as the sun begins to wash away the dark of night. It takes just under fifteen minutes to walk to the train station, and the neighbourhood is all a-hush. Twilight is my favourite time of day, and though I am more familiar with evening twilight, I discover the light of the dawn to be equally enchanting. It has a different feeling of course; the world is about to wake up, become bright and busy, instead of go to sleep under the soft sparkling blanket of the night sky. But that in-between space between day and night is the same, and it takes my breath away.

I walk through the park on my way, over a small dark creek that shines in this half-light, masking its brown city murk. The long, muted-green leaves of the eucalyptus trees create a canopy and their smooth silver trunks curve gracefully below. Ethereal fans of water spray out over the cricket ground, protecting its bright green grass from drought. I can smell that the field has been recently mown.

By now the orange glow in the east behind me has begun to creep higher. I cast my head backwards a few times to catch a glimpse, but move quickly through the brisk morning until I reach my destination. To do so I must cross a pedestrian overpass of an eight-lane freeway. It feels like crossing over some molten river of lava—frightening but fascinating. Sometimes, though, I can’t bear to look down, and simply cross with my gaze up and the rush in my ears.

Just on the other side sits the station. Sometimes as I descend to platform one I can see a small flock of brightly coloured hot air balloons in the west, that has risen to catch the glorious waking of the sun. The dawn has been very glorious indeed on my morning commute thus far. I usually arrive five minutes early for my train and I sit on a bench looking east, calmed and buoyed by the magnificent pinks and oranges and the brilliant glow added to the sky by the sun just out of sight. I feel calm, at peace, inspired.

Then I go to work.

I am grateful to have found temporary work, though it is not always an easy job. I have landed the title of production assistant at a raw vegan chocolate factory that does very well, and produces a lot of very delicious chocolate. Which translates to extremely busy, rushed and noisy days in the factory, and I have left each shift with a very achy back, sometimes a headache. But I have a job, and given I can only work six months at any one place of employment on my current visa*, I would not really wanted to have landed my dream job in the first half of this year anyway.

Production starts early, and as a natural night owl, I am seeing more of the dawn than I have in a quite a few months (Spain is a country perfect for night owls in its late dining and living rhythms, so I did not see all that many sunrises in the past year).

I have been in Australia two months now and fall is in the air. I do not yet feel settled. We do not have a place of our own, and I have found my new job somewhat challenging. And a recent bout of homesickness has hit me hard. But on those beautiful morning walks, with the sky and the leaves and the fresh, brisk air, I am at peace.

*I currently have a Working Holiday Visa which permits the holder to work in Australia for one year, on the condition that no job last for more than six months with one employer (unlike the Canadian Working Holiday Visa which allows two years and permits holders to work at any job for as long as they like during that time). For more information on the costly and wily ways of Australian Immigration, see my post: Australian Immigration Throws a Curve-ball

Noche Sevillana

~ teganb ~ 6 Comments

The evening sun shines warm on my face while the breeze flitters with cold fingers against the back of my neck. The grass is tall and uncut, bright and luminous in the light of the low-lying sun, stirring and shivering in the cool currents of air. I sit in a nest of tall blades with a tree at my back, a small green and orange cloud of delicate leaves above me, rustling not only in the wind but with the fitful hopping and pecking of tiny brown birds with tiny black eyes, who seem to know a lot more than they say.

The flies land on everything, from my bare arms to the trembling blades of grass. The river just beyond me has begun to shimmer with the silver and black swirls cast by the angle of the day’s last sunshine. It seems to be rippling towards me as though I sat on the shore of a lake and not a riverbank. And all of a sudden, my paper is bathed in a blue shadow, which is simply the lack of yellow as the sunbeams slip behind the buildings and instant goosebumbs arise on my arms. All at once, we evening park dwellers reach for our cardigans and jackets, look about at the sudden change in light, tuck in our shirts and draw our limbs a little closer in on ourselves.

The hue of the grass is an entirely different green and the breeze seems a little more insistent now. The surface of the river has turned dark green and white, reflecting the sky above and the trees along the bank. Above me the birds still dance about in the sun, but the glow in the west is sinking quickly as the sun somewhere out of sight brings dawn to other lands, leaving the night to claim us. But in the first moments of the sweet liminal space between light and dark, I pull my legs in towards me, balancing my notebook atop my knees, and breathe in the grassy dusk air in thirsty gulps.

My sweater is thin and soon I will wander the cobblestone streets back to my sloping old flat and leave the park to the Spaniards. The twilight will deepen beyond my balcony window and the dinner din will echo in the streets below. Later I will slip into my jacket and go out to meet them. The contrast between my quiet afternoon writing time and the lively noche sevillana feels the same as the contrast between the night and day reflecting on the river.

Sweet river, what a faithful friend you have been; this is the hour I will miss you most.

The city itself is bright and beautiful at all hours, but perhaps I will miss it most at night, when the lanterns illuminate the alleys and the cathedral towers, and laughter and clinking glasses echo through the streets. A week more here before I leave and I miss you already. But tonight I join you.

With my chilly arms it’s time to pack up. Hasta luego, noche sevillana.

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