Sweeping the floor, I could see the dust particles caught in the winter morning sunbeam bouncing off the sliding glass door, tiny solid specs of sand and soil floating on the minature rainbow in my kitchen. A glimpse of the universe as I gathered up their fall to earth to be recycled back to the ground after I threw the contents of the dust pan onto the grassy back lawn. These moments are like little windows into other worlds, and are never far away.
When the rains came earlier in the week, after months of absence, there was movement underground, not just in the footings of my transportable home which croaked and creaked but also in the arrival of birds searching for worms who started to make their way to the surface. There was a lot of moving and shaking going on, in the leaves, under foot and through the drains. We never seem to be fully ready for the rain when it comes in my part of the world and the 10mm or so we had on Wednesday to get the season started was cause for celebration.
I attended a Grandparents morning and my nearly 9 year old grandson, wondered with pleasure, at the mini crystal like chandeliers that had been made by the raindrops in the school frog pond – bereft of frogs all year – but now with a promise of their return. Not quite as long to wait as a Halley Comet orbit, but for a little person it might feel like 75 years to see a frog again.
The dark clouds hide the stars at night as you can’t see stars and rain at the same time. And when rain falls you can almost hear the soothing ooos and aaahs of the parched land and souls. Squiggly under a doona to the sound of dancing on the roof is one of those universal comforts for the human condition. Sparkling, suspended in time, drops caught on the tips of the sheoak fronds, a little bit of heaven, celestial stars here on earth.
I remember the last drought, when a preschooler saw rain for the first time, and as the water splashed the naturally waterproof slate on the church steps after a Sunday morning service, curiously asking his father “Why was the sky crying?” It was such a poignant moment that I will never forget.
I long for the stars to shine at night, but I am grateful too when I don’t see them and the clouds offer a promise of rain. The shifts in the climate are real.
I spent a few days this week with experts and advocates, policy makers and prophets working on coastal challenges. How to stop doing things, how to adapt, adjust the natural environment to protect, heal and restore – just some of the ways forward. Overall I was empowered by the fidelity of those who are in love with our wonderful coast. From the tip to toe of the country, making the coast their lifelong focus, building knowledge and sharing insights into rising sea levels, habitat for multiple species – including humans, designing and engineering for safety … so many good humans with a lifelong commitment, now beginning to see the legacy of their work as a nation steps up to join them in their understanding of all things coastal.
So while the sand floating in my kitchen may well be a legacy of the quarry nearby blasting to produce construction materials for building and infrastructure, it also connects me to the coast. And just as the lads in Coldplay sing, every teardrop a waterfall, I am reminded every raindrop has the whole story of creation unfolding as it falls from the sky to wobble into place and balance on a leaf, before some of its friends come and join and they find their collective way to the ground.
Dust and starlight days and nights to greet the new season, as I hold on to hope for more rain.
Letters to 