Tag Archives: bushfire

Mending buttons

I was just mending an errant underwire when I noticed an unopened packet of ‘mending buttons’ in the tub that now serves as a sewing basket. I vaguely recall buying the buttons in the first months after the fire. I guess I figured there might be a button emergency or perhaps they would be useful for the kids’ craft. I thought of the sewing basket I’d had since a child – frayed but still serviceable and the gorgeous large brown jar of buttons that had been my mother’s and hers before that. Its lid was rusty, the jar pleasingly ridged and inside were buttons like jewels. These objects reflect life’s patina. My home is warm, friendly, light, airy and filled with comfortable and beautiful objects but it doesn’t have its patina. There are only four and a half years of our history here. We belong but something is missing.

I’m thinking of those who have lost their homes in the latest fires. They are dealing with the enormous practical task of day to day living after finding yourself suddenly homeless, with your objects gone. Where will we sleep? How do we replace our documents? How do I charge my phone? I don’t have any clothes. I’ve lost all my prescriptions. There’s no tampons in the cupboard. Thankfully these current fires haven’t left people with the questions ‘Are they alive?’ ‘What’s happened to my GP?’. They will grapple with replacing the essentials, finding somewhere to live, negotiating work, fractious relationships and the behemoth that is traumatic grief.

I hope they, too, will one day have the space to reflect on something as small as a jar of buttons and realise how they have healed and will continue to do so.

Leaving the mountain

I cannot smell the smoke
but above me the sky is tangerine
or perhaps blood orange
Why do we so often seek edible metaphors?
Unlike the fruit
this sky contains no moisture

 
In refracted light
we load life’s cargo
mine is quiet
womb-wriggling stilled
by adrenaline
my son’s red-slicked face
too fearful to contemplate
we calmly pack the car

 
I leave you now
your misguided hero’s carapace
impervious to my pleas

 
I toss the woollen blanket inside
a stupid, careless gesture
its ember pocked fibres
your shield from glass-melt heat
there will be times I wish
I had taken it with me

 
The car noses out of the driveway
it could drive this road itself
on this surfeit of molten tarmac
we travel alone,
our descent slowed by a water truck
its load splashing, a liquid hypnotist
each pearled drop a promise
fluid counterpoint to peripheral flame

 
I glance to the right, for look I must
this fiery thunderhead inhales
sucking my lullabies from the air
it would inhale the car
but for the firmness of my grip
we reach the town but do not stop

 
smoke flanks that bitumen ribbon
I have threaded fire’s needle

Front Door. Collecting the thoughts, words and images of those dispersed by the Black Saturday fires.

Front Door, a new online community arts project is underway to engage those dispersed by the Black Saturday fires. Creating ways for those living distant from fire-affected areas to communicate has been identified as an important gap in the bushfire recovery process. We do not know the stories of many of those who now reside over a broad geographical area. They remain unheard amidst the dominant paradigm of ‘rebuilding’. I know some people who have left  fire-affected areas have felt invisible at times and have not known how to find others in a similar situation. We hope this project will go some way towards improving this.

Front Door is a website that will encourage participation by suggesting projects for people dispersed by the February 2009 fires. The first is to take a picture of your front door and tell us what it means for you. With each new project there will be an example to act as a guide or inspiration.  I am curating the site. The project will allow people to participate openly or privately. As much or as little as you like. Using words, images…whatever!

How to participate?

www.frontdoorproject.wordpress.com

Please feel free to circulate this information with anyone whom you think might be interested. And please visit, our door is always open…

Epicormic growth

It is three years today since my life, and those of so many others, changed forever.  Anniversaries provide us with an opportunity to reflect. We remember the 173 people who lost their lives. We remember the homes, livelihoods, communities and ecosystems lost or irrevocably changed. We remember our anguish, uncertainty, fear and grief. We remember the love and support of people both local and distant. We remember the heroes both sung and unsung. We acknowledge that there will always be a ‘before’ and an ‘after’. We reflect on our lives following the fires. Our journeys, if you will.

Look at the trees. They are recovering but they are not unscathed. The land is healing: at its own pace, in its own time.

Today is a gentle day. It is cool. The sky is overcast. The wind temperate. A good day for growth and healing.

 

Epicormic growth

From a distance
we appear unchanged
as the timeless hills
shaped over millennia
impervious to disaster

Travel nearer
witness our charred trunks
framing new vistas
silent eucalypts
we stand testament

Near death
we hold our losses close
our stasis perilous (if we stand still…)
survival uncertain
without leaves we cannot capture light

Tiny silver-green shoots
erupt from blackened bark
our epicormic growth
unfurls impatiently

Soon the burnt land
is greenly festooned
our striving growth
a parody of what is familiar

With time
our branches strengthen
we approximate normality
those silver sentinels seen from afar
our reminder
our loss

Our eternal optimism
our growth, our saviour

A fragment…

Last Wednesday I had a dream. I woke feeling at peace. This fragment describes it…

In my dreams
a soft blanket of silver ash covers me

The souls of the dead
mingle with mine

Home II

 

It won’t be contained
this home of mine
not by political borders
geographic boundaries

 

We shall see the desert
rainforest, ocean vast
The aurora borealis,
phantasmagoric
will delight us each night

 

No, it won’t be contained
by the prison of time
each moment framed
as before or after
it will always be now

 

Smudges on doorjambs
echoing feet
laughter and tears
our capricious whims sated

Bauble

unwrapped with reverence
released from a tissue cocoon
globes of gold, green, silver and crimson
an incongruous orange fish

shimmering paint
worn away in places
to reveal translucent glass, light as air
aged patina, witness to many a Christmas

heirloom baubles
one by one they are hung with care
suspended, fragile but commanding
memories in perpetuum

————

nestled in the ashes and charcoal
skeleton of the festive tree
metal limbs in defiance to inferno
fearsome survivor of family celebration

but the baubles are vaporised
fuel of a conflagration
perhaps their pigments invoked Christmas cheer
in the middle of the furnace

————

garish plastic orbs, in silver and purple
chosen by others
adorn a new tree in a different world
ugly reminder, a bitter season

soon they are jostled
by paper chain, patty pan bells
pie tin ornaments
glass stars sent from afar

a festive focal point
for renewed commemoration
after which the baubles are
reverently wrapped