Wake on Saturday to find it not just cool, but cold. Layer up, breakfast quickly, then hop into the car. The sky is an unpromising grey as we head to the market, but it’s big and clean from all the recent rain, and I know the weather's going to improve. It must. We've a concrete slab to build.
Swerve slightly, missing a rabbit running across the wide downhill run toward the dam, my favourite part of the drive, its white tail diving into the blackberried edges of the road. Slow down, wind through the turns, see water (still!) flowing over the dam wall as we cross the bridge, then back up, a steep and narrow climb. Horses hanging out by the fence at the top on a cleared patch of farm land on the ridge. I’d like to stop, but remind myself that it's good to catch moments like this from the passenger window, and leave them simply as they are.
The market is already busy. A chat to the elderly men who man the raffle ticket desk, all of us wrapped up against the cold. I write our address, they tell me they know it well, that it’s a good place to be. Things to do, so we've got to be quick. Find the greens stall, pick out fresh - very - coriander, a couple of bunches of watercress, carrots and radishes, replete with snappy greens and, pleasingly, a bunch of amaranth leaves. Tomatoes of all shapes and sizes next door, sweet yellow peaches and new season apples, bagged up with a wonky-toothed grin.
There are caged birds here, too, sold from the tray of a ute. Hens and peacocks, but it is the ducks, huddling together, that draw me closer. I want to take their photo, but I realize there’s a panic among them. Too many ducks in too small a space. Suddenly uncomfortable, I put my camera away.
Home to tea, and the makings of our first concrete slab, the base for a brick oven. It was a good weekend. All of this is to say that I love our new life, feel the rhythm of things beginning to make sense. I feel quieter, stronger, and happier in those deep parts of myself that, for a time, felt lost.
sounds like The Good Life - evocative post that makes me want some tree changing
Posted by: Johanna GGG | February 14, 2011 at 09:01 PM
I imagine there shall be hard work ahead for you with building and all that it entails; however is there any greater sense of purpose than making your mark on your very own patch. Glad you feel stronger.
Posted by: Mariana | February 15, 2011 at 01:23 AM
And you've been flexing your writing muscles beautifully too :)
Posted by: another outspoken female | February 15, 2011 at 07:44 AM
Lucy - extraordinary writing. I missed you and I missed your work.
Posted by: Amanda | February 15, 2011 at 10:24 AM
That sounds like a perfect day! I'm interested to hear more about this oven!
Posted by: Ro | February 15, 2011 at 01:28 PM
sounds like a wonderful day, i long to be living my days like that
Posted by: paula | February 15, 2011 at 02:30 PM
Ack! Brick oven?!?! I'm utterly jealous - been wanting to build one myself for years. I can't wait to see what wonderful things come out of yours...
Posted by: chelsea | February 16, 2011 at 12:16 AM
Lucinda,
It is wonderful to open up my e-mail and get your post and be greeted by such lyrical, and evocative writing. And best of all know that it about you experiencing in the here and now. You are fortunate to have followed such a path where you seem to have a chance to blossom in so many different directions with your creativity.
Though I am responding to this comment feed, I am also wanting to answer your questions from the feed where I commented on your `pomegranate and walnut` post.
I do have a few Internet sites where you can see some of what I do, though my presentation skills are limited, I always am trying to learn more, as I feel the Internet is an incredible tool. Here is where you can find some of my work:
http://turkishtartan.blogspot.com/
http://www.youtube.com/user/turkishheart
http://www.flickr.com/photos/dizzydeb/
none of the sites are up to date, but I slowly chip away at it.
Thanks again for your addition to my days!
Deborah
Posted by: Deborah Scott | February 16, 2011 at 04:45 AM
So happy to read this. You've found home within and without.
Posted by: Elaine | February 16, 2011 at 10:04 AM
Wonderfully atmospheric prose Lucy - wish I was there!
Posted by: Caz | February 17, 2011 at 10:03 PM
it takes time to settle in. our first summer here i think we mowed grass and weeded and explored, and got ready for winter. last summer (our fifth!) was the first time we were starting to garden seriously. everything up to that has been maintaining things and making slow changes.
it's incredibly great to read your words. if it makes you feel any better, we've had several summers that have been cold and nothing but rain (good for wild mushrooms and greens and onions - terrible for tomatoes and squash). but i must run now...off to the barn. i'll come back and read and write more.
Posted by: Ali | February 22, 2011 at 12:15 AM
Guys, there will be more on that brick oven to come...it's exciting, and I am surprised by both my own strength and knowledge about such blokey things! Comes, I think, from having an industrial arts teacher for a father. Absorbed a lot by osmosis as a kid.
ali: Find comfort in your experience (as always). For a couple of months I was frantic about it, worried that things were getting away from us, impatient to get to the destination, like a kid in a car, are we there yet, are we there yet? But in January, I realised there's only so much one can, ya know, do. So now I sit on the porch sometimes, think and dream, and remember that it's a s-l-ow process. Find I like the slowness actually.
Funny you mention mushrooms - there are mushrooms a-hoy in the park this week!
Posted by: Lucy | February 22, 2011 at 08:55 AM